


Bound by Circumstance

by justshyofgifted



Series: Oblivion Bound [2]
Category: Bloodbound (Visual Novel), Nightbound (Visual Novel)
Genre: Addiction & Recovery, Adventure, Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dissociation, Drama, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, NSFW, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pining, Plot, Romance, Slow Romance, Supernatural Elements, Transitioning, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2020-12-17 16:16:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 138,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21057311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justshyofgifted/pseuds/justshyofgifted
Summary: Taylor Hunter (MC) has made it good for himself in New Orleans; turns out moving to a new city fresh out of college to reinvent yourself isn’t as hard as people make it out to be. Things only start to get confusing when he finds himself the target of a malevolent wraith. Good thing someone’s looking out for him though — because without Nighthunter Nik Ryder as his bodyguard he definitely won’t survive long in the twisting darkness of the supernatural underworld he's tripped into.Book 2 in theOblivion Boundseries; focusing on Taylor and the events ofNightbound. Completed.





	1. The Middle of the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> _Bound by Circumstance_ and the other _Oblivion Bound_ works are based on the _Bloodbound_ & _Nightbound_ visual novels created for the Play Choices app game. 
> 
> While heavy inspiration and many plot points are taken from the original content, the _Oblivion Bound_ works are canon divergent and [at the time of publishing this, waiting for BB3] may deviate from the plots taken in-game.
> 
> As of initial publishing (10.30) this work is _unbetaed_.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four years after graduation Taylor catches up with his old college roommate, Kristin, and her work friend Vera for Mardi Gras. But a lot changes over time and Taylor isn't the same person he was back then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Series Content Warning:** The main character, Taylor Hunter, is both a transgender man and a former alcoholic. I, the writer, write about the trans experience _as a trans man_ and wish to acknowledge that I will be relaying _my experiences alone,_ and I in no way wish to imply that my experience is the only one. That being said; there will be _no physical/violent transphobia in this story._
> 
> This is also a blanket warning that alcoholism and addiction will be heavy themes in _Circumstance._ I acknowledge that everything mentioned/relayed is from research and a desire to be sensitive to the real problems around alcohol addiction. If at any time anything mentioned in this story can be deemed as factually incorrect please communicate this to me and it will be removed ASAP.
> 
> This statement serves as a blanket content warning and all content warnings going forward will _not_ mention alcoholism unless it is a focal point of the chapter. 
> 
> **chapter content warnings:** language, hallucinations, mentions of needles, implied transphobia (light), alcoholism/recovery, alcohol, drunken characters

The speckled pinks and oranges of rapidly-approaching sunset mirror the tourist’s neon shirts; plastered to their backs with patches of damp sweat.  


He can’t imagine what it must be like to lead the pungent masses day in and day out. To mark them as prey with bright triangle flags flying high; leading them along like children with tethers of long camera straps and beaded trinkets from this shop and that stall. 

It was hard enough to be an outsider when he first arrived. For his coworkers to see his born-and-bred habits like the traditions of a long dead civilization. To always be the _other _and to always be _othered _in a way he wasn’t used to.

Oh he’s used to being the _other_. Just for things that aren’t where he’s from and why he can’t handle the spice-coated flavors others were just _born with. _

It’s taken a year and some weeks but he’s finally close enough to being _one of the rest_ that he’d never do something to damage his carefully cultivated reputation with something as tarnishing as a cemetery ghost tour. 

So long as he keeps his distance he’s just another onlooker maybe digging for scraps of a heritage long-forgotten. No way is he one of _them._

“All right-y y’all, let’s head on back to the carriages. They’ll take ya back to the Square and from there y’all’re free to enjoy the col-a-ful Quarter nightlife on ya own terms!”

The tour guide’s accent is thick and rich with generations of Cajun history. Taylor’s seen her run this route a dozen times in one day — she may not have a theatre to call home but he’d definitely consider her to be as much of a performer as he is. 

No one could be _that _excited to spout out the same facts and deal with the constant barrage of insensitive Civil War-obsessed family dads every day. Not without being a little dizzy in the head.

Lo’ and behold one raises his sunburned arm. “Can we stay if we want?”

The guide almost slips — almost rolls her eyes.

“Ya paid for a ride back but that’s your dollar. You just gotta high-tail it with everyone else when the gates are closin’.”

“Why,” comes the petulant response, “don’t tell me they lock this place up because of the _ghosts._” 

Taylor watches the perpetrator; a young man wearing the Hartfield University logo like he’s getting a thousand bucks for each separate instance, wiggle his fingers at a woman beside him. She playfully shrieks, swats him away with a “ohmygod stop it Jake!” and no matter the answer the guide is going to give they could care less.

And the guide’s noticed it, too. Squares her chest and brushes her braid over her shoulder with a nonchalant frown. 

“Not so much them as the muggers and drunks who take advantage of scrawny lil’ white boys like you who hang around like dumb shit. But by all means — stay if you think you can handle it.”

‘Jake’ must decide he can’t handle it because no one but the guide is left behind when the masses start back to the carriages. Taylor can’t help himself when he laughs.

“You need a ride too, straggler?”

She’s looking right at him. There’s a coy smile on her lips and something about her that seems a bit hazy — Taylor chocks it up to the humidity playing tricks on his tired eyes. 

“Yeah, you,” she says without being prompted; throws a look back to her charges before crossing the cobblestone path to the crypt Taylor’s been using as good vantage point. “Don’t think I ain’t seen you creepin’ on my path. Next time you pay; got it?”

“Oh, I wasn’t —”

“Yeah yeah, I’ve heard it all before so save it.” 

He didn’t ask for a ride back — would appreciate it but he’s fully capable of using his two feet and turning them in the direction of the Quarter. So he tries not to bristle at her defensive tone; tries to think back to all the things he was pushed into learning growing up.

_Being defensive is sometimes the only way to get through the day._

“You got kin in here, _cher?_”

She has to snap to bring him back to reality. 

“Huh?”

But at least she’s smiling now. Even if her smile changes in the shadows that grow and stretch over the evening. He tries not to linger on it too much.

“Just I’s seen you around here a couple times, is all.”

“Oh, no,” —then when he realizes he’s just given the implication that he likes hanging around crypts— “It’s a nice place to think. Away from the crowds.”

As if the world exists to prove him wrong there’s a whoop of laughter behind them. Taylor and the woman look to see a pair of children trying to climb on a stone ledge while their parents argue several feet away.

The guide groans. “Will you think less’a me if I’m too tired to deal with that right now?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then get that cute butt up in that there carriage. Now I just plain owe ya.”

Taylor shakes his head. “No, you don’t —”

“_Hush._ Book it.”

He’s flustered and she knows it. Flustered in the heat and with the visible light slowly dimming — that’s what’s tricking his eyes. What’s making her ears look a little too pointy and her eyes a little too bright and wide.

After all — what’s he gonna say? _‘You’re looking a bit _Lord of the Rings_ today, miss?’_ Probably not.

“Anyway the gates is closin’ soon — so this ride’s on me.” 

They probably exchange words (or in Taylor’s case flustered nods and smiles) but hell if he can remember them. Not when he finds himself in the same carriage as Jake and his friend with the friendly guide — “call me Tilly” — beside him. 

He must be awfully flustered the whole ride back to the city.

* * *

One thing to know about New Orleans is _Mardi Gras_ isn’t just a party or a festival that comes around once a year. It’s a _way of life. _

Adopted by the tourists who travel from all across the country in search of a place to forget all but the celebration for the short time they’re here but first birthed by deep blood running in red rivers and streams through the Bayou and down into the sewers on Bourbon Street.

Ask anyone who calls the Big Easy home and they’ll tell you; it’s in the earth and the sea and the sky. It clings to the hull of every boat on the Mississippi and catches on the breeze that carries fallen leaves through the streets. More than just the open booze and cheap plastic beads — it’s the collective time to share the heady atmosphere of _do everything but more_ and bridge the divides that settle in the city’s oldest bricks.

For Taylor it’s an excuse to undo the top button on his shirt and lose himself in the sweet swell of jazz down every block. 

For Taylor’s old college roommate Kristin it’s an excuse to take a week off work and invite herself onto his tiny (_tiny_) couch for a full week nowhere near sober.

Tilly was — is — cute but if Taylor’s being honest with himself he’ll probably forget the ripped brochure panel with her number on it. Only to remember it come laundry day with the regret of the single-but-okay-with-it crowd. 

As he shuffles off with elbows pulled in tight to maneuver his way through the crowds he’s given a stark reminder of why he went to the cemetery to clear his head in the first place.

_Ping._

[TEXT]: I C U!!!

Taylor’s well within his rights to be terrified of a text like that, especially when the _ping _that follows it is met with a blurry picture wherein the flash practically whites out his hair. 

But this is Kristin and Kristin has absolutely zero boundaries. Even going so far as to send at least three more photos of him looking down at his phone before he can even try to pinpoint the rooftop she’s hanging off of.

Luckily he catches sight of her (hard not to with her bright and glittery costume and long arms flailing like willows in the wind) before he stalls the entire street. Awkwardly shuffles into the bar and gestures at the back staircase to the hostess who literally couldn’t care less.

The rooftop seating isn’t as crowded as the floor below — for that he’s grateful. Less so for the sudden onslaught of glittery, liquor-tinted kisses pressed to every visible inch of his face, though.

“You ma~ade it, you ma~ade it!” Kristin sing-songs; almost spills her half-drunk hurricane but is apparently still sober enough to keep from spilling such a valuable item.

“And _you _started the party without me, I see.” 

She giggles and brushes her hair away from her shoulders with a flourish. Wiggles her half dozen plastic beaded necklaces in his face with triumph. “Indeed I did!”

“Just be glad I managed to get her down to something she needs to sip out of a straw.”

Taylor looks up at the unfamiliar voice — finds himself dragged towards it by Kristin’s eager hand.

When she mentioned a ‘friend from work’ would be coming with her on vacation Taylor hadn’t known what to think or say. After four years their lives had gone in completely different directions — as was expected to happen when a theatre major and an accounting major ended up sharing an apartment on pure chance. 

Frankly, though he’d taken the pushover high road and not said a word about it, when he thought Kristin had invited both herself and her coworker to stay with him he hadn’t been pleased in the fucking slightest.

But Vera — _“amazing Vera,” “perfect Vera,” “I don’t know what I’d do without her Vera”_ — hadn’t wanted to impose on a stranger and gotten a hotel room for the week. 

How is it that Kristin always attracts the kind of people who take care of her? 

The humid breeze rustles Vera’s curls; not out of place but just enough to make her seem like even the wind is staged to highlight her best features. She looks like she came to the roof straight from the airport in a lax business suit with sleeves rolled up and collar button undone. 

Not that the sleeves make much of a difference — Taylor chocked up Kristin’s insistence that Vera _“always wears long silk gloves — like always”_ to her penchant for hyperbole but nope, there they were. And judging by the humidity and the way she holds her sweating cocktail glass by the tips of her fingers they aren’t very comfortable.

“Keep sippin’ sugar,” coaxes Vera, her smile fond as she directs Kristin’s neon-green crazy straw back between her lips, “don’t want you to crash and burn just yet.”

She hums in compliance, smacks her lips when she’s done and only then realizes she needs to make introductions. 

“Whoops! Tay — this is Vera! Vera — Tay —”

“The infamous Taylor, oh I know.” She extends a gloved hand that he shakes — tries to hide his confusion but apparently not very well. 

“I’ve seen enough pictures of you to feel like _we _went to college together.” Knowing Kristin as well as he does that’s a perfectly valid answer. 

“I just wish I could say the same.” He admits almost sheepishly.

But Vera waves it off like it’s nothing. “Nah, you’re good. Baby girl knows how much I value my privacy.”

Before he can answer Kristin’s calling out to one of the waitresses making her rounds and snatching a drink off her tray to head directly for Taylor. With mortification he takes it and hands it back to the now irritated waitress — hands her a solid twenty for her troubles, too.

When Kristin and drinks are involved he knows to always come prepared to placate wait staff.

“Does your friend need to be cut off?” the woman asks with a leer. It’s the second time he’s flustered that evening because there’s no way her eyes go from hazel to yellow. Obviously.

“No no, she’s good. We’ll take good care of her.” 

“Oh really?”

“I’m the, uh, _D-D._” Thank god his smile works because the last thing he needs is her to get him banned from every bar on Rue Bourbon in a single week.

There’s a reason they don’t go back to their college homecoming week.

“I’ll get you a pop then.”

“Thanks.”

When he turns around Vera already has their girl back in her seat gabbing; a few steps closer and he catches the end of what was undoubtedly a riot of a story about something that happened on her flight over.

Vera flashes him a sympathetic look and a nod. _Oh yeah,_ he likes her already. They’re gonna get along swimmingly.

* * *

“Do you have to be so _loud?!_”

“You’re the one screaming.”

“No ‘m not…”

“Yes you are~”

“Am not!”

“Are too~”

Taylor’s never had the best reflexes; doesn’t have enough of a sixth sense for oncoming violence to duck before his sofa pillow smacks him in the head.

“Your aim’s gotten better.” He drawls. Rounds the kitchen island and throws the pillow right back at the hungover mess squished on the cushions. 

Kristin looks at him through a ratty ginger mess. He can _feel _the hatred from the distance. 

“I was aiming for your butt.”

“Oh, then I take it back.”

“Dunno how I missed such a wide load!”

Despite her general anger at the world Taylor continues making her the barest excuse of a hangover breakfast; fried rice and scrambled eggs slathered in the ketchup that might as well run in her veins.

He leaves breakfast in a little display at the island — plated with a side of orange juice and coffee brewing in the pot. 

“I gotta head to rehearsal — please get up if only to turn off the coffee maker?”

He scratches her hair like a pet — smiles fondly at the memories it brings back. Memories of them in this exact position four years younger. He missed the company.

Now that her dramatic episode is over Kristin yawns and gives him a pitiful frown. “I don’t need coffee,” she whines, “I need vodka.”

“Well you’re fresh outta luck there.” She knows any space he calls home is a dry one. 

She watches him grab his keys and head out. Calls out “love you!” just like they used to. 

“Love you back!” 

The door closes behind him.

* * *

New Orleans wasn’t exactly _the place_ for young, fresh-out-of-college performing hopefuls to go searching for roles. Not unless they were returning to their roots. Truthfully if anyone bothered asking him _why _he’d chosen the Big Easy he wouldn’t be able to give an immediate answer; he certainly struggled finding a company to latch onto when he first came down. Struggled (and continues to struggle) between temp jobs and deciding whether to pay rent or treat himself to something other than grilled chicken — _again. _

Most of his struggles he could blame on the glamorous life of an actor; big struggles early in life surely meant big rewards in the future. 

Yes; he’s well aware he’d have at least a _few _less struggles had he picked up his entire life and moved, say, to Los Angeles. 

But Taylor’s never been a fan of the easy way out. New Orleans called (probably a wrong number, but who was he to fight fate) and he answered.

There’s a laugh off to his left while he scrubs the sweat from his face. The bottom cotton of his tee itches like hell — but it’s better than not being able to see. 

“Trying your hand at stripping, Hunter?”

The _thud _of a body sitting beside him on the edge of the stage. He drops the thoroughly soaked hem — still has to rub his thumbs into his eyes — before catching a glance at the lead he’s under-studying.

“I mean I thought about it,” admits Taylor—only half-joking, “but I like beignets too much.”

Antoni rolls his eyes and leans back with all the casual freedom of a man who has played five starring roles of the seven productions the company’s put on. Once you have your spot secured like that you can pretty much get away with anything. Especially making fun of the newbie.

The only thing Antoni and Taylor have in common are the lines and blocking they’re leaning. Where Antoni is brunette, Taylor is blond. Where Antoni is lithe and wiry — perfect for dancing though the company refuses to put on any musicals until their tenth year — Taylor is a little broader in the shoulders, a little curvy on the hips in comparison to the almost ethereal way Antoni’s body shoots downward. 

Sure, like anyone with a pulse, Taylor had walked into his audition with a slight crush on Antoni’s heartbreaking smile and bright eyes. Then the star opened his mouth and Taylor couldn’t remember one thing he found attractive about the New Orleans-born performer. He didn’t know whether being a pompous jackass was in the man’s contract but he sure carried himself like it was.

Antoni looks Taylor up and down; his lips pursed in an all-too-familiar judgy frown. 

“Sure, _that’s _why you couldn’t pull it off.”

The words send violent little stings all over his body. Make Taylor turn away from the way his coworker suddenly zones in on his chest. Everyone in the scene was sweating their asses off but two layers of spandex compressed on his chest didn’t make it any easier on Taylor. Still, no complaints as he endures the exercise in stifling Louisiana heat.

Fucking Antoni. 

The rest of the scene’s performers join them on the edge of the stage. Water bottles are passed around and Taylor takes one gratefully from the girl beside him. Antoni declines his offer like plastic bottles are for peasants and snaps at one of the non-speaking roles to grab his metal water jug from the greenroom. He’s Antoni so… the kid scrambles to do his bidding. 

When everyone is gathered the director smacks his palm against his clipboard — every single time, without fail, it makes Taylor feel like he’s back in a class being wrangled by a teacher — until everyone’s focus it on him.

“Alrighty, y’all, that was a real good run! I just have a few things I wanna go over…”

He pays attention like a good little soldier, but even though the director is a seasoned pro and his feedback is good, some people can be way too chatty. Makes Taylor zone out and think about how badly he’d now like to shove his face full of fluffy hot donut to simultaneously prove Antoni right and give him the middle finger. It’s not like he’s going up on stage anyway.

Being the understudy is fun. Being the understudy to a guy with enough ego to fill the bayou and a spotless attendance is less fun. Just means he knows he’ll only ever play the lead if Antoni gets eaten by gators… and even then it’s a little up in the air.

Tangential threads of thought have him thinking of the last time he bought a bottle of Gatorade when there’s motion around him and everyone is getting up and saying their goodbyes for the evening. “Hey, Antoni, stay back a sec,” says the director — Taylor tries not to roll his eyes as he heads to the back to change.

The reason he’d picked this company out of the dozens of amateur theatre gigs in New Orleans was simple — if not a little shameful. He should have wanted to go where the talent was, where the stories were, where the _audience _was. But Comerlan & Company was the only group that boasted (like, _boasted_) their inclusivity. Like, made-sure-to-include-their-nonbinary-green-room boasting. 

He’d been slightly confused upon entering to find a faulty light switch and storage supplies — but at least it wasn’t being used for the wrong reasons. A couple of the crew members even welcomed him with a personalized sign: 

TAYLOR’S GREEN ROOM  
LEAVE YOUR SHOES  
& BINARY THOUGHTS  
AT THE DOOR!!

Antoni may be a stuck-up prick but Taylor has his own green room. If anyone was keeping score that was at _least _ten, maybe even eleven points in his favor.

He’s bag-slung-over-shoulder and nearly out the back door when one of the crew rounds the tight corner with a stack of boxes obscuring his sight. If Taylor hadn’t been scrolling through Kristin’s five _literal _million texts about plans for the evening that he has no say in he might’ve stopped just in time to avoid a crash.

Yeah, he doesn’t.

They both go tumbling down with boxes between them. It takes Taylor longer than normal to blink the daze out of his system — judging by the costumes spilling out of the boxes they shouldn’t have been that heavy yet he can’t shake the distinct feeling of running into a brick wall. Or a mountain.

“Oh jeez — not again —” comes a gruff voice off to his side; followed by a hand outstretched in offering. 

“— are you okay kid?” —the hand switches to a set of three fingers— “How many fingers am I holding up? Have you ever had a concussion before? You know what — stay there. I’ll call an ambulance.”

The man towers so high over him — really _towers _even at Taylor’s ground-level view — that a chunk of the overhead lights is obscured by his frantic head. You’d think a man so high in the sky wouldn’t take a fall so seriously but he’s acting like he just tried to stab Taylor on accident or something.

“H-Hey — hey, HEY!”

He shakes off the cartoon canaries flying overhead and rubs the back of his head; sore but there’s no blood on the linoleum; not that he suspected there might be.

Then the lights shine in Taylor’s eyes as the large crewman crouches down; reveals a worried face cut in serious angles. Like a-jawline-made-out-of-stone angles. 

And there’s _no way_ a guy_ that hot_ should be looking so worried, so… almost _innocent. _

“Hold still — and if you feel the need to vomit —”

“I’m fine, man, fine,” the more he says it the more he starts to mean it, too, “I’ve taken worse falls than this.”

“Are you sure? I’m… a bit hard to run into.”

“Like a mountain.”

“Er — sure.” A strange look comes over the man’s face before he offers up his hand again. Taylor uses it to pull himself up, hold steady. Could swear the man’s face shifts and grows darker (literally several shades darker) out of the corner of his eye but this time, flustered or not, he’s pinning it down on the unexpected head trauma.

Before he can look around for it the man seems to conjure Taylor’s phone out of thin air — he checks the intact screen with relief. 

“Thanks.”

The crewman is already bent down, though; putting costumes back in boxes haphazardly. “It’s my fault. I should have been watching where I was going.”

“Dunno how you could have,” Taylor chuckles as he begins to help, “those things were stacked taller than you are. And that’s pretty impressive, no offense.”

The man’s face goes a slight pink — Taylor’s glad for once _he’s _not the embarrassed one. 

“None taken.”

When everything is cleaned up and the boxes are re-stacked (which, doesn’t that just ask for trouble, but Taylor doesn’t say it) he turns to leave without a word. Only stops when the other clears his throat at Taylor’s back.

“I’m Krum, by the way. I’ve seen you around… you’re the King Oberon understudy aren’t you?”

_The understudy._ Yeah… that’s all he’s known for — all he’ll _ever _be known for. But still he tries to take it as the compliment it is; forces on a smile and turns back on his heel.

_God, he wishes he hadn’t._ Because maybe he hit his head harder than he thought. Maybe he _did _need an ambulance. Judging by the sudden garish, almost monstrous appearance of Krum the Crewman’s face. 

He compared the man to a mountain before but _not like this._ Not with his jaw suddenly cut from what looks like granite and the veins in his literally _rocky _muscles now black and glittering with sediment. 

With the air whisked from his lungs Taylor squeezes his eyes shut. Grits his teeth so hard his jaw begins to ache and the fading headache from his fall comes back full-force.

_It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s. not. real._

“Hey… you okay?”

The way ‘Krum’ asks isn’t like before. It’s startled — unsure. But why wouldn’t he be? It’s all in Taylor’s head — he’s just _flustered _again.

He snaps his eyes open; steals back what little oxygen is left in the suddenly too-crowded empty hallway, and nods. 

“Yeah. Gotta go. Bye.”

Not that the jarring switch from air-conditioning to the muggy humidity of the New Orleans sunset does him any good. But he’ll take anything over hallucinating again. _Anything._

* * *

Kristin accepts that Taylor won’t join her in her pregame, but she’s not a fan of him trying to delay the start of her very-good night.

“Tay, hon, I’ve accepted that you’re not gonna pregame with me but I don’t see why that means I have to start _late _because you wanna talk.”

And at first he’s okay with it — knows she can be a little self-centered at times but when it counts she’s always there for him — until she’s too busy texting Vera about the secret club she’s been raving about ever since he got back from rehearsal to notice that this would be those times where_ it counts._

“If you’d stop trying to relive your college glory days for one fucking second, Kristin, I could use a friend and not a human vodka bottle.”

It’s gets her attention because it’s _not _Taylor — not the passive, takes-everything-silently Taylor she knew. 

But he _needs _her right now. Not just because he doesn’t really have anyone else. 

Only when they’re sitting on the couch together with newly-brewed mugs of tea in hand, though, does the silence break.

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

Kristin sips her tea for something to do. “I shouldn’t have been, uh…”

“College-Kristin?”

“Yeah.”

Their hands meet where the cushions do and they squeeze. Things really _have _changed. 

Only now he has the space to talk and in classic Taylor-fashion he’s unsure of what to say.

“Whenever you’re ready, okay?” While some might not consider Kristin taking her phone and turning it screen-down as a big deal, he knows better. Knows it means she’s living in the moment with him. 

It takes him a whole twenty minutes to be ready — and she doesn’t look at her phone once.

“I never told you why I stopped drinking just before senior year.”

“No, you didn’t.” _Not for my lack of asking_ she doesn’t say; doesn’t have to. 

“I know it’s a bit late, but…”

“But better now than never.”

_Better now than never._ The same words Taylor said to her seconds before his first injection. Her hand gripping his shoulder tightly the whole time. It’s the only throwback so far that _hasn’t _made his stomach queasy. 

“Right,” he nods, “better now than never.”

No one meeting them now would believe that it was _Taylor _with the drinking problem and Kristin worrying one step behind. As it was only a few people in their shared and close-knit social circle of queer outcasts and image-reinventors knew there was a time when sobriety was a fickle joke to him. He made sure it stayed that way, too.

Even back then he’d been good at hiding; hiding his drinking, hiding his therapy, hiding his doubts about who he really was. And maybe no one would have ever known had their group plans to visit Europe for their last summer not fallen through. 

Because going back home to stay with his mother — not that he blamed her; he could never blame her — had been the tipping point. All those old familiar faces who kept calling him the wrong name, kept using the wrong words. The whispers behind cupped hands that would stop the moment he walked into a space. The once-friends who were suddenly ‘too busy’ to get to know the man he’d become instead of the _woman _they thought he was.

Each drink made the whispers and rumors easier to suffer. He could laugh them off and, on really bad days, joke around with them — turn himself into a joke at his own expense. But it was a double-edged sword and he knew it. 

“Remember that trip my mom and I took to the city to see _Wicked?_” 

Kristin nods. She’s been silent the whole time — through every admission of guilt, every notable time they had fallen out or he’d been caught up in something stupid that had only happened because of the drink — and Taylor wouldn’t be surprised if she decided to stay with Vera for the rest of her vacation. 

Taylor exhales; this isn’t something he’s ever admitted beyond the safety of a private office, beyond a patient confidentiality clause. “She was never much of a drinker, you remember. So she didn’t know what I was ordering was way stronger than hers. And when we were done she went out to call a cab to the theatre and… and I remembered I hadn’t taken my meds that morning.”

“Shit, Tay…”

He shakes his head to stop her. If that’s what’s got her worried she won’t be able to handle the rest of the story. “Yeah, it was dumb. But to be fair I was pretty dumb back then.”

Kristin just shrugs. Brushes her thumb over his knuckles. 

“That’s when I, uhm, you know I was a week late moving back to the apartment?”

“Yeah, you said…” No matter what he’d said it wasn’t the truth so she doesn’t finish. 

But Taylor remembers. Remembers laying in the hospital bed trying not to panic himself into a heart attack. Remembers his mother crying over his bedside some nights and trying her best not to shout at him during others. _Please don’t tell anyone,_ he begged her with bleary eyes and a fresh IV in his arm, _I’ll get help, I’ll get help. Just don’t tell anyone._

“Well what really happened was… it was bad,” even with all his extensive vocabulary it’s the only word he can think of, “it was really bad. The doctors said it was the combo — that I probably took more of my meds than I needed on accident. 

“I was looking at people but — but I wasn’t _seeing _them. They looked strange or inhuman or… or _both._ I’d hallucinated like that before but never… never _that _bad.”

Her nose scrunches up — she’s holding her thoughts back but right now that’s okay.

“You’d hallucinated _before?_ And did the same shit knowing what would happen?”

There’s an accusation in her voice that makes him look away in shame. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Too bad — try.”

So he tries — doesn’t know how well he succeeds. Explains in broken sentences and half-started half-finished examples of when the hallucinations first started and how happy he’d been when drinking made them go away. Well… until that last time.

“So lemme get this straight;” Kristin pinches the bridge of her nose, “you were seeing shit, and started drinking to _not _see shit, but you still kept seeing shit so you kept drinking until you didn’t see shit anymore?”

“Pretty much.”

“Taylor that’s the stupidest fucking logic I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Like, it doesn’t even make sense.”

“It did at the time.”

“Bullshit — but continue.”

Only by that point there isn’t much left to say. He got help — missed the first week of senior year because it overlapped with his rehab. “Explains why you never answered my calls,” she mutters. “Mom passed along every single message, though,” he offers as consolation.

“Rehab was the easiest month of my life. I didn’t _want _to drink again — especially if it meant seeing… seeing _stuff._ And I wasn’t even tempted when I went back to school. I had my meds, and I had that terrifying last time to scare me straight.”

He tries not to let Kristin’s silence get to him — tries not to shift under the weight of imagined scrutiny. It’s not like this _thing _ruined their friendship and only now, four years after the fact, is he coming clean about it. It’s more like he’s… filling in the blanks. Giving the story more context. 

So very _meta _of him.

“So why are you telling me this now?”

_Man, he hoped she wouldn’t ask that._ But why else would he bring it up if he wasn’t prepared for it? 

“Because,” he says on a shaky inhale, “I _know _you’ll believe me when I say I haven’t had a drink in years. You’ve seen my place, you’ve seen how I am out on the town; I’m not even _tempted._ My mom… she loves me — and that’s why she’d probably think I’m lying if I told her.”

“_‘Told her’_ what?”

“That I think… I think I’m starting to see things again. And I’m scared, Krissy, I’m really _really _scared.”

He falls into her open arms without hesitation. Knows when things are less serious that she’ll get on his case for leaving wet spots in one of her favorite shirts later but she knows when to put the persona aside and just be _there _for him. 

Others may not get the full story between them — and, really, now _she _knows the full story too — but god is he glad to have someone like her in his life.

* * *

Every time the full and unopened bottles _clink _in the bag between them, Kristin looks over his way. He gets it, really he does, but it’s starting to get annoying.

_“No way are we going out tonight.”_

_“Seriously — it’s okay.”_

_“Dude you just had a full-on mental breakdown in my lap.”_

_“And that’s new?”_

_“I can’t enjoy myself knowing you’re miserable!”_

_“I’m not miserable, Krissy. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you for legit ever.”_

_“Ugh, well… you’ve got me there. But we’re gonna change things up a bit, okay?”_

So she called Vera while Taylor showered the tears from his conscience. Gathered up all the bottles she bought while he was gone that day into one eco-friendly tote bag and made a second call to a rideshare with the destination set at Vera’s hotel in the Business District.

_“I don’t want you guys to change your plans because of me.”_

_“Shuuuuut up, Tay. My liver will probably thank you in the long run.”_

_“But what about your friend?”_

_“Vee — oh she’s fine with it. Apparently she found a club or two we can get to instead!”_

Not that there’s much difference between a bar and a club in any other town but here in the Big Easy (and especially during _Mardi Gras_) near-every bar is a club on certain avenues, but that doesn’t mean every club has a bar. 

Kristin beckons him close and cups her hand over her mouth to whisper in his ear. “And if you start to, well, _you know,_ then we’ll leave and go check out the sights. Cool?”

The driver probably gets the wrong impression of them when Taylor kisses her temple lovingly. That’s okay though. He wouldn’t be the first.

“Cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a slow start but I promise it’s needed for the upcoming chapter/s. Drastically different than _Destiny_ though! Comments and critique would be fabulous as always; I really want to know your thoughts on Taylor! Thank you for reading.
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	2. Horror Film Clichés

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor and the girls take on the town as festivities kick off in the French Quarter, only to suffer the hallucinations he thought he'd left behind. On the way home things take a turn for the cinematically terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** entions of alcoholism, therapy; alcohol, drunken behavior, blood, mold, body horror, chasing

They’re certainly a trio to be reckoned with. Not that anyone looks in the mood to try.  


Vera and a different pair of silk gloves — still in color-coordination with her outfit, which is pretty impressive — gently nursing her second hurricane through a neon straw. Taylor and his version of fun with his own looping straw in a coke bottle. And Kristin completely hammered between them; beads from the night before swinging with the shimmy of her body towards anything that looks even remotely fruity and, more importantly, on a ‘2 for 1$’ _Mardi Gras Week_ special. 

Frankly Taylor’s a little surprised. Would have thought his finally coming clean about the only secret left between them might have curbed her alcoholic appetite. He must not be hiding it well either; since Vera comes up beside him while they watch her do that thing drunk girl strangers do where they suddenly find the other girl the most beautiful creature in the world and will _die _if they don’t tell her.

So, like, typical Kristin stuff.

“She’s been looking forward to this for _months,_” Vera says with fond exasperation, “had three countdowns; one on her desk calendar at work, one on her phone, and —”

“Let me guess, one on _your _phone?”

Vera grins. “Old habits, huh?”

“_Her _exams were on _my _alarm schedule.”

“Ooh, gotcha.”

“Mmhm.”

He’d thought it would be hard getting along with Vera — the friend of the friend — but it couldn’t have been more the opposite. Vera was witty and charming and had the distinct drawl of a native Southerner without any of the local judgment. She was definitely as fish-out-of-water in the throngs of party-goers as he was; something hard to come by and even harder not to feel ashamed about in the natural, glowing presence of Kristin’s extroversion. 

The hard part comes when it turns out most of the local clubs and dives Vera had put on their agenda have adapted to the needs of the season in all the colors of the vodka rainbow. 

Taylor keeps insisting he’s fine — “no offense to your keen sober coaching skills but I _have _lived in this town on my own for a bit now, Krissy” — but she won’t have it. Not until she’s had her shot, had a mysterious game card punched (where did that come from?), and pushes them back out the way they came.

There’s a thoughtful touch to his arm that makes Taylor look back. Vera glances at the streets and their lights with something like recognition.

“I think I know a great lil’ place nearby if y’all are into anything off the beaten path.”

She says _y’all _like she’s speaking to them both but Kristin’s _whoop _of delight as she trades beads with a man covered from head to toe in different shades of glitter for kisses on the cheek says she’s long gone.

Which may work in their favor, actually.

“How far?” asks Taylor. Vera gestures airily. 

“Just on the other block. It’s nothing special — just a place some friends and I used to hang out in when I was younger. More a place for historical value than something to add to Cookie’s drink card over there.”

But it sounds great to him. “I’m in. You wanna play rodeo this time or should I?”

As Taylor tips an invisible cowboy hat her way Vera giggles open and unafraid; puts on what she probably thinks is a more Texan edge to her accent and pretends the glittering floral piece on her bodice is a belt buckle. 

“I think this is a two-man job, _pardner._”

He tries to take her seriously — really, he does. But nope, nope, it’s just too silly. He can’t _not _laugh. “Never — ah! ha! — never do that again!”

Together they successfully corral Kristin back into the safety of their immediate vicinity and head over to Vera’s suggestion. Which, as it turns out, is _exactly _the kind of place Taylor’s been hoping they’d find all night.

Small and the exact opposite of crowded; filled with wooden surfaces both glossy and in need of a little love. Frames on the walls of years gone by but uncluttered — they leave him with the feeling of wanting to make his own space not just on the wall but in the world outside.

Once Kristin’s safe and snug in a rounded booth Taylor joins Vera up at the bar to bring back drinks. 

“Two cokes and a water, please!” Even she sounds cheerier. What happens when you send two introverts out to party at one of the most crowded events of the year, he supposes.

“This one’s on me.” Taylor insists; is already forking out the bills. 

Vera sighs but doesn’t exactly decline, waves in thanks as she heads towards the back where a neon sign says ‘LADIES.’ “Lemme go powder my noise for a second, _cher._”

One minute he’s examining the bottles decorated with beads and stuffed with themed string lights for the occasion and the next he’s pressed against the bar with a hot and heavy voice husking in his ear.

_“Pssst!”_

Taylor sighs and gently pushes Kristin off. “I thought we told you to stay put in the booth.”

“Well, yeahduh,” she rolls her eyes like she’s done exactly as asked, continues on; “but this is more important!”

He waits. And waits. Finally has to ask. “What is?”

With drunken subtlety Kristin jerks her head to the last booth in the row. _“That.”_

“What?”

_“That!” _

Admittedly the first time he’s only humoring her. The second — and only because if she gets any louder the party outside might hear her — he actually _looks._ And probably would have missed the stranger and the glass he nurses in the shadows if Kristin hadn’t directly pointed him out.

His eyes haven’t exactly adjusted to the bar’s dim lighting yet; makes him have to squint with all tact out the window. There’s no pretending he’s doing anything other than trying to map out the face of the lone stranger.

Though there’s no pretending the stranger isn’t staring _directly at him,_ either. 

A leather-clad arm grabs his dusky tumbler and brings it up; lets it melt into the shadows he wears well. There’s an angular jaw and dark hair that blends in around him. The heavy _tap-tap_ of a workman’s boot like an afterthought. 

Whoever he is he’s definitely not dressed up for the festivities. Looks more at home in the shadows than the shadows themselves. Besides the glint of his eyes in the yellow bottled lights he wears the shadows perfectly.

Or maybe they wear him instead.

As a rule Taylor’s never been one to believe in cliches — things like _love at first sight_ only happen in the movies. And judging by the chill that runs down his spine it’s definitely not love he’s feeling as his world zones in on the stranger and his shadows. 

No, he’s quite familiar with this particular feeling; the tension in his jaw and the cold sweat that presses spandex and cotton to his back, the way things go a bit fuzzy around the edges and he’d rather this not happen ever again but definitely not now — not with people he _knows. _

Only… it doesn’t. As if he’s willed it into reality. Even with a heated face and the surprising tickle of sweat creasing on the outside of his eye. 

Taylor waits, and _waits,_ and _waits…_ but the shadows stay shadowy and the man stays, well, manly. No hidden face in the depths — no sharp teeth or pitch-black eyes or, hell, rock-looking mountain skin. 

The man is just a man. And as suddenly as the feeling overtakes Taylor it’s gone. 

“Now Cookie, stop it — Taylor, hon? _Taylor._”

Like the air was made of molasses and suddenly starts being air again Taylor turns his head all-too-quickly. Snaps to attention at Vera snapping her fingers in vain in front of his face. Lucky he’s still leaning against the bartop because the vertigo that follows is not pleasant.

“I… wha..?”

The back of her glove is warm against his forehead. He’ll have to buy her a new pair if he damages that one with his perspiration.

“Sweetheart,” the fact that the worry isn’t letting up in her tone should be evidence enough, “you look like the whole _Mardi Gras_ parade just passed over your grave.”

The situation has the doubled effect of sobering Kristin up. She offers him what was supposed to be her water with a frown. “Damn, Tay, you look like a shadow or something.”

_A shadow._

While _terror at first sight_ might not be one of the cliches for the books he’s pretty sure _vanishing into thin air_ is. The only thing left in the corner booth is the now-empty tumbler and a crinkled bill. 

And there’s this sinking pit in his stomach that should he ask _“Hey, what happened to that man in the corner?”_ the only answer he’ll get is _“What man?”_ and another thing to tell his therapist about. 

With shaking hands he takes the glass and sips it at Kristin’s urging. 

“I —” _god his throat burns like he’s not had a drop to drink in years,_ “— I think it might be my bedtime.”

He tries to laugh it off. Can’t even convince himself. Isn’t sure he wants to. 

Vera gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. There’s something motherly about her smile. “I think it might be _all’a _our bedtimes.”

Kristin looks ready to argue — a look from her coworker stops her in her tracks; makes her silently agree. 

Right now he couldn’t ask for better friends.

* * *

He could, however, ask for friends of a more sober variety.

“I don’t think this is the way to my place, guys. Why don’t we just call a car?”

“Relax worrywort,” Kristin tells him for the umpteenth time, “Vera grew up around here. She knows these streets like the back of her hand!”

She looks to Vera for confirmation but the look they get back is less than reassuring. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve wandered these old roads, Cookie.” Vera looks apologetically at Taylor. He can’t blame her — he’s lived here more recently and still doesn’t know the back alleys and _rues _as well as he should.

“C’mon! Where’s your sense of adventure?” whines Kristin. Taylor’s pretty sure he left it back at the bar in the stranger’s corner.

Wherever they are they’re well beyond the party now. He strains to hear even the most distant sounds of the Quarter but the chorus of silence and accompanying locust orchestra.

Vera’s phone screen illuminates her face in a gaunt digital glow; shows just how quickly it turns into a frown. “That’s funky…”

“What is?”

She shakes her head, extends a hand. “Can I borrow your phone? My carrier must be mad I left New York.”

He offers it without thought. She takes Kristin’s, too, both screens like spotlights. 

_Funky _isn’t the word he’d use to describe the troubled crease in her brow. “Vera; what is it?”

She lifts the phones skywards — points them at the numerous strings of telephone wires criss-crossing over them like a net. “Must be in a dead zone or something.”

Kristin giggles and knocks into his side. “Oooh how _spooooky~_”

Only he doesn’t share her sentiments. Not spooky but certainly troubling — and immediately his anxiety goes against him and decides to remember what Tilly the tour guide had said the day before about things worse than ghosts that liked to hang around New Orleans at night.

“Well then let’s walk until we find signal.”

There isn’t any three blocks to the right. Or two blocks up and four over. Kristin stops complaining about how much her heels make her feet ache a little while on. The night air’s done wonders to clear her head but he almost wishes she still had the distraction of a buzz to keep her from worrying.

If he wasn’t so concerned with the surroundings getting less and less familiar by the minute he might make a quip about their reliance on unreliable technology.

“What was that?!”

Taylor hisses; pries Kristin’s nails out of his arm like shrapnel. Can still hear her high-pitched shriek ringing in his ears. She sounds like just another cicada. 

She’s fixated on the empty street behind them. Nothing moves under the dim lamplight — not even a bit of grass in the wind. _Had there been a breeze before?_ He doesn’t remember.

Vera takes on a little bit of the Kristin-duty — gently coaxes her over to hold her gloved hand tightly and shushes her nice and steady.

“What spooked ya, baby girl?”

“I could have sworn I saw…” She searches the darkness with a scrutiny that doesn’t ease Taylor in the slightest. “There was a movement and…”

_“And,”_ Vera finishes for her, “it was probably just a bird over the moon. You’re only freakin’ yourself out. One foot in front of the other, you know how it goes.”

It’s enough to get them moving again. Taylor rubs his hands over his bare arms and looks up at the cloud-covered moon.

Two more blocks and Taylor’s finally had enough. If they didn’t have any signal closer to civilization then they certainly aren’t going to get any in the heart of shotgun houses and street lights every quarter mile.

“This is getting us nowhere. Maybe we should just double back to the Qu —”

Kristin interrupts him with another shriek and a jabbed finger. 

“There it is again!”

But, _again,_ there’s nothing but the night. Taylor sighs. “Okay, no more ghost watch for Kris —”

This her third scream almost breaks his eardrums. Makes Taylor wince and clap a hand over one ear as he glares between the girls in frustration. How the _hell _she managed it with her mouth closed he doesn’t know, but it’s getting to be too much.

Makes him gawk at Vera who gives a full-body shiver. “Seriously?”

Tears prickle at the edges of Kristin’s eyes and her lower lip wobbles the same as it does when she sees a movie with more than one dog.

“Taylor… that — that wasn’t Kristin.”

“Stop, Vera, yes it —”

“_Cher _I’m standin’ right next to her.”

He takes a step forward. Feels a sudden cold like the bite of winter on the back of his neck as he places his clammy palm over Kristin’s mouth.

And, as if triggered by touch, the cicadas stop their serenade at the unearthly screech so loud it thins the air around them. The kind of noise that makes blood turn over and go sour. Makes it stop pumping in your chest and, in the void left, lets your heart begin pumping liquid fear instead.

They’ve all seen how this goes down: separation means being picked off, running means there’s something to run from. Like there’s something bred deep into their mortal bones the three take hands and usher one another along with haste.

_“What is it?”_ Kristin whispers thickly.

_“I don’t know —”_

_“— and I don’t want to find out.”_ Vera finishes for him. Keeps looking back behind them even though the high-pitched howl echoes off the ramshackle homes in all directions.

Taylor knows the logical thing to do would be to pound on doors until some sleepy, confused soul dares to confront them. Knows they’ll somehow be safe surrounded by thin walls and the presence of a stranger. The monsters in horror movies never show up when there’s an unknowing witness, right?

But _logic _doesn’t exist in horror movies.

And his life just became one.

The housing alleys open up onto a main road — deserted, as per horror movie logic — with a large brick wall across. 

He recognizes it immediately. 

“Come —” _—does the howl that drowns him out sound closer or is it just him?—_ “— come on! Over the wall!”

They’re in the middle of the street when Vera gets her bearings; stops them all with a surprisingly strong grip despite the slippery gloves. 

“No way!”

But the cemetery is _so close._ “Well we don’t exactly have a ton of options!” He hisses.

“Trust me on this when I say whatever’s locked up in _there _at night is worse than what might be out here.”

He yanks back his hand as if burned.

“_What_-ever?”

Taylor doesn’t miss it. Wouldn’t give a slip of the tongue much thought given the circumstances only Vera seems genuinely fearful at the distinction between _who _and _what._

“Whoever—_whatever! _Just — that’s a dumb idea. You’re gonna get us killed.” She argues.

Kristin looks between them and bites her lip white. “Guys…”

“Vera, do you know something?”

“What — I don’t —”

_“Do you know something about this?!”_

In the absence of screeching the silence is somehow worse.

Vera looks down and to the left.

“No.”

Fuck. They _so _don’t have time for this right now.

“Krissy — come on!” Thank god she doesn’t hesitate — looks back at Vera crestfallen before crossing the road to the cemetery with him.

He’ll feel bad about leaving her behind if and when he gets the chance to look back — not fondly, no fucking way — but every nerve and fiber of his being is screaming uncertain about even _that. _

With grunts and effort he hikes Kristin up enough for her to grab onto the top of the wall. Fights off the paranoia that comes with the suddenly restless shadows around them. 

Kristin lays flat on her belly at the top; reaches down and helps Taylor scramble up before his shoes can resist the mossy surface. 

Poised to leap down he throws a last look back. Vera’s nowhere to be seen. 

“Taylooor!”

He vaults down into the safe entrapment of Lafayette Cemetery Number Two.

* * *

Before both feet even hit the ground Kristin’s on him; smacking him with open palms and tears down her cheeks. “I can’t believe you just _left _her you _asshole!_”

She left Vera, too, but something tells him that’s not the right thing to say. 

“It was her choice.”

“Dude — nobody thinks clearly in shit like this! Oh my god — what did I _do?_ We need to go back.”

He grabs her wrists. “No. Krissy, no. Look at me. _Look at me!_” Doesn’t mean to shout but it’s the only way to get through to her right now. If anyone was the blonde in the movie…

“Something’s not right, okay?”

“Yeah, _leaving her wasn’t —_”

“No — fuck — stop! I mean it felt like she… she _knew _something… someone…”

And here comes the headache again. Maybe just being _near _alcohol is the problem. Can’t do much about it now — even sober it oozes from Kristin’s pores. 

_But is it a hallucination if they’re seeing—_hearing_—it too?_

He watches her face crumple and does the only thing he can. Pulls her into a bone-crushing hug both to stifle her sobs and feel the grounding presence of her fluttering heartbeat. 

“W-WW-We’re the dumb white teens in-n the gg-gore flick, Tay.”

There’s nothing humorous in his laugh. 

“Yeah, we are.” Pushes her back gently and points behind her — across the cemetery to the far wall beyond. 

“I was here yesterday. There’s a twenty-four hour cafe on that side. We make it there and by movie logic: no more being chased, right? _Right?_” He waits until she nods; tries to muster up a smile but knows the twist of it is nowhere near reassuring. “Good. Then come on.”

Only Vera had their phones. And the dead don’t need night-lights.

They use the worn stone tombs to keep themselves steady. Make it all the way to the dividing path of the cemetery under the cover of almost pitch darkness when the moon decides to peek its ugly mug out from behind the clouds.

The wind stops mid-groan.

_He’s just being cautious._ Just keeping an eye on their surroundings. No matter the _who _or the _what _there can be a very real danger posed in cemeteries at night. It’s not just a ploy to scare tourists. So _he’s just being cautious. _

Only he could repeat that excuse until his tongue bleeds and Taylor would know it’s not the whole truth. Not that he’d admit to knowing he needed to look at the entrance gates at that exact time in that exact place. 

_No; nothing save torture would get him to admit that._

Long wisps of tattered cloth billow in the still air. Translucent, like mummy wrappings. Trailing outwards from the gaunt and yellowing skull in a burial halo. 

_No, not a skull._ Skulls don’t have flesh but as his eyes adjust to the waning moonlight he can see the rotting, putrid remains of skin still clinging; holding on for dear life against hard cheekbones, sinew holding together a gaping jaw.

The decay makes it harder to tell the difference between organic and fabric the more of the creature he takes in. Could play a funky little samba tune on each protruding rib but can’t see _through _it to the spine. The bones deform down at the hands; the talons bearing rust-covered manacles ripped from the depths of some place that makes him question his spirituality. 

And Taylor imagines the combination might have made the feet of the thing look comical — if it had any. But it ends, stunted, at skin pulled taut over the pelvic bone before it dissolves into writhing maggots and the remains of what might have once been an angelic-white burial shroud.

But he’s an actor — he’s seen what the film industry can do, the magic of stage blood and putty. He’s seen some pretty ugly realities made from fake props.

It’s the smell that isn’t a fake. That same curling, chemical smell bodies have at wakes. _Formaldehyde._ And under that a sour and metallic odor that literally — _no, literally_ — makes anything living near it wilt, brown, and wither into spidery white fungi and black-spiked mold.

The world is quiet. Almost blissfully so. Like it wants Taylor to let the creature be just another figment of his imagination.

It raises a claw. Warped fingers curled. And points at his heart.

Behind him Kristin gives a shattering shriek. The creature’s jaw falls gaping and meets her at every decibel.

His cries of _“Go — go go — GO!”_ are lost to the ringing in his ears as the skeleton—thing—whatever-it-is raises its arms and tears through the metal gate in one fell swoop. Cuts through it like fingers through a waterfall and with the touch of death that makes the iron curl and twist in on itself; age with rust and years it shouldn’t have been forced to see so soon.

Then it’s floating — actually floating — towards them. Really _really _fast.

They trip over themselves, one another in their haste to run. Taylor makes sure to push Kristin ahead of him. Doesn’t know if that’ll do anything in the long run to prolong her life or just stave off her inevitable suffering but he can’t not try. 

“Keep running!” _Don’t look back._

“I am!” 

“Don’t look back!” _Keep running. _

“Wasn’t planning on it!”

In a startling move Kristin grabs the corner of a mausoleum and whips around it — has to grab Taylor by the hem of his shirt so he can follow because there’s absolutely no way they’re splitting up now. 

“Ohmygodohmygod_ohmygo_ —”

His turn to yank her along through the narrowing paths between the crypts. “Nope — no time for that shit._ Move!_”

But in the back of his mind Taylor’s screaming at himself; they’re only going further into a cage of their own making. Leaping over the other wall was a good idea when they had the time and the clarity of mind but now, being chased by Jacob-Marley-from-Hell, they were in short supply of both.

And losing more by the second.

_Hide. It’s coming._

Common sense, right? So why does Common Sense suddenly have a voice that echoes in his head like a thousand different cries? 

_Hide!_

He spots the gaping void of black like moon gives it a spotlight. Grabs Kristin’s hair — he’ll apologize later — to get her attention. Together they slip between the sliver of space in the open stone door.

“In here!” 

“What the _fu—_”

Taylor clamps his sweating hand over her mouth as their creature gives another howl to the night. Drags its claws against stone because why _wouldn’t _it be absolutely fucking terrifying like that?

He blinks; lets his eyes adjust to the almost-too-darkness to fixate on Kristin’s trembling eyes. A knowing glance and he lets his hand slip down. 

_“What do we do?”_

_Yeah, Common Sense, what do we do?_ Taylor knows he’s not going to get an answer. There’s no script here — no director and no blocking. Just him and his dumb brain being clouded by panic.

_“All right listen,”_ he whispers back, _“whatever… whatever that is it tore right through the gates. If we can get there maybe…”_

_“Maybe it’ll chase us out there?”_

_“Krissy.”_

_“I know — I know. I just…”_ She gives him a look and he knows. Feels it, too. That cold sweat and the fear of the unknown. But one step at a time. 

They wait until the creature’s cry sounds distant; maybe on the other side of the cemetery? Maybe not — not that they really have a choice.

Taylor goes first. Looks left, right, left again and has a fucking heart attack at tree branches looming overhead but it’s enough space to run so they _run for it._

Fouled rot his them like a wall and he doesn’t have to look back to know it’s behind them in hot pursuit. He does anyway. What skin is left around its mouth tears and snaps to push out another bellowing scream.

Blood drips hotly from its teeth.

_“KRISSY RUN!”_

He doesn’t have to tell her twice. 

The chase could be minutes, could be seconds. It could be an hour-long montage of weaving in and out of narrow escapes and almost-captureds or something out of _Scooby Doo._ Whatever it is it sucks the life out of them both but only gives that _thing _more energy the longer it goes on.

And then—_then_—he catches sight of a familiar path of dead grass and a molding bereavement bouquet.

“Come on! We’re almost there!” he cries; reaches back behind him flailing for Kristin’s hand in his. 

They’re going to make it. 

_I’m so sorry. _

Stop. No. He can see the gate. 

_I’m so, so sorry._

Kristin’s fingertips like butterfly kisses brush his wrist. Then nothing. And now he knows how awful silence is compared to the cry of the dead.

Taylor skids to a stop. Turns to see Kristin just standing there in rigor mortis — just _letting _it approach her in undulating rags and spectral death. Watches with open-mouthed horror as one of the skeletal hands reaches out to touch her. 

It’s obscene how gentle the touch looks. Soft like a lover brushing from the tip of her forehead to her parted lips. The more it trails the paler she becomes and he’s not _crazy _when he can see the pulsing, pounding of her veins running black instead of blue underneath her sheet-white complexion.

The hardest part is not knowing whether she turns to him in a last, desperate act or if the creature compels her head to turn. But the milky whites of her eyes are branded into his memory for good.

Kristin crumples to the dirt; another dead thing at its feet. 

And it fucking _grins _at him. 

The last thing Taylor realizes is _how much the thing is enjoying it; this — the chase._ Makes him feel a warmth down his legs through his jeans and leaves him paralyzed. 

He’s pretty sure the image of Kristin’s eyes reflected in the abyss of its rotting sockets isn’t a hallucination. But the figure that appears seemingly out of nowhere behind? Oh most definitely.

And the bright white light that shines, _radiates,_ swallows the shadows in a bellyful that leaves him blind? Yeah, that too.

And the weightlessness? Well… now he’s probably just dreaming.

_He can’t remember… do horror films get last-minute rescues? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing to be said for this story is that it will definitely be different than the _Nightbound_ book! Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	3. Of Monsters and Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor meets his new bodyguard, debates casual necromancy, and learns the truth behind his hallucinations. All while a fae makes him cream soda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** anxiety, panic attacks, alcohol, brief non-fatal self harm (slapping)

Taylor doesn’t remember waking up — one second he’s asleep and the next he just isn’t.  


Despite the things he’s seen (not really seen, but thought he’s seen) he’s not a fan of these kinds of wakings. Would rather emerge slowly as if from a cocoon. With enough time between breaths and heartbeats to let the dreams that plagued him fade away into fuzzy oblivion — forgotten despite all efforts to bring them back to recent memory.

He prefers it because when he wakes all at once there’s no helping remembering his dreams. 

And all of _that _— the cemetery, Vera’s gloves, Kristin’s tears, the moon and moldy flowers — definitely isn’t something he wants to linger on.

“Are you gonna freak out now? Because these walls ain’t soundproofed.”

The voice resists its accent; clips sounds the Louisiana slang wants to let hang. He’s never heard it before but doesn’t need to. 

It does the trick. Reminds Taylor how easily the world of dreams can blend with reality.

He takes in his surroundings with eyes still shut. The scratchy pilling on the cushions underneath, the stale air that’s made his shirt stick sweaty to his body, the repetitive squeak of a portable fan that should have retired a lifetime ago.

If he keeps his eyes shut will it all go away? Can it really be that easy?

_Of course it isn’t._ He knows it, the stranger knows it… but still a guy can dream.

“I know you’re awake, kid,” the stranger continues, “sleepin’ people don’t breathe like that.”

Taylor’s nose scrunches. “Don’t watch me breathe.”

“Then don’t breathe weird.”

_The fact I‘m not hyperventilating right now is a fucking miracle,_ Taylor wants to say back — doesn’t in favor of inhaling so hard his nostrils burn before letting it out in a whistle on his dry lips.

Instead he snaps his eyes open and stares at the bald patches of peeling paint on the popcorn ceiling. 

Something shifts behind him; the squeak of leather on pleather. 

“You’re handlin’ this awful well.”

No, he’s really not. “I’m not unfamiliar with waking up on strange couches.”

“Is that so?” 

Taylor doesn’t like the way the voice drops into a suggestive purr. It’s enough to get him to sit up on his elbows and try to shake the fog from his head. The familiar words, _“how much did I drink last night?”_ are on the tip of his tongue but without the pounding headache there to accompany them they just don’t feel right. 

A hand appears out of the corner of his eye. He watches scarred knuckles on tanned skin flex silvery as a nondescript flask is placed on one of the coffee table’s few bare spots.

“Here — this’ll help. Trust me.”

Taylor takes it. Can smell the familiar simmering honey and spice of whiskey. But he isn’t even tempted — screws the cap back on and sets it pack with a little too much purpose.

The stranger gives a _‘huh’_ of surprise. “You sure? It’s not top shelf, but —”

“I’m gonna say this once;” as he does Taylor sits up and digs his knuckles into his eyes to quell the dizzy rush, “don’t ever offer me alcohol again. Please.”

As bright and inconsistent colors flash before his sight there’s silence. 

Then, “fair enough,” and takes back the flask.

He can’t immediately tell if the stranger is just prone to dramatics or if the positioning of the lamp-sans-shade is purposefully there to shroud his rescuer _(or kidnapper)_ in all the shadows the apartment can offer. 

But it’s definitely him: the guy from the dive bar. Where his memory ends his eyes pick up the slack and fill in the sharp face like a puzzle. Dark eyes — almost black — and evidence of a five o-clock shadow. A little bit of a greying sheen to the hairs at his temples. And a strange scar like an inverted triangle brushed flippantly from left temple to eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone.

So he’s the quintessential ‘rugged, grizzled, don’t-play-by-the-rules’ type. Which, in Taylor’s opinion, just makes the worn leather trench coat overkill.

And his very presence makes things very _very _complicated. 

Makes his head incite a full-on civil war between the things he knows and the things he’s seen — not to speak of the independent faction trying to resist both.

The man grabs something small off of the stand beside him and a glass of water — takes one of Taylor’s hands off of his jeans and pushes it into his palm in a very non-negotiable style.

“At least take this. That headache looks real fierce. Won’t work as fast as the booze, though.”

_Oh, he knows._ But he’s glad for something to help no matter how little and washes down the aspirin tablet with the entire water glass. 

Judging by the awkward silence that follows neither Taylor nor the man know how to actually… _begin._ Because there needs to be a beginning — maybe not right now but there was earlier and if he thinks about it too much, if he lets his imagination run wild and spiral, he’ll start to panic.

Last time he checked panic wouldn’t bring Kristin back from the dead.

_Kristin. Oh god. He needs to find her body. _

“Can I…?” He raises the glass. The stranger slaps his knees and hauls himself up with possibly too-much dramatic effort and takes it to refill. “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

It’s a small apartment with only as many walls as needed. Ideally Taylor would prefer a room between him and the man to make his escape (which will be the exact opposite of stealthy) a little bit easier, but…

He waits until the leather-clad back is turned before slowly starting to stand. Not one step and the fucking floor creaks underfoot. 

_Shit. _“Uh — can I get some ice?” Taylor asks; louder than necessary to cover it up. 

The man (probably) rolls his eyes. “Want a straw while I’m at it? Maybe a little pink umbrella?”

“I’d prefer yellow.”

“I bet you would.”

Taylor waits, poised like a viper, and strikes when the ice maker on the fridge door begins to rumble to life. Dashes as fast as he can — _though it isn’t until he moves more than an inch that he realizes just how sore everything is_ — to what looks like every closed front door he’s ever seen.

_Aaaand _it’s locked.

There’s a deep rich laughter behind him as Taylor yanks on the brass handle; twists the lock this way and that in his growing panic and previously undiscovered claustrophobia. 

When he looks back the man is behind him, glass in hand — with ice, too. 

“Stop laughing!” Taylor’s voice cracks — makes him wince.

With a shake of his head the man approaches. Taylor tenses for some sort of assault but instead watches dumbly while his personal space is invaded. _Damn this guy is tall. _

“Stop being so funny.”

“What kind of fucking sicko locks an apartment from the outside?!” 

Bemusement falls into a slight frown. He flinches, feels the stranger reach around…

The door unlocks with a _click. _

“Dunno, but I’ll let you know when I meet one.”

Not a second into looking up and up into the man’s face does Taylor push him back. Keeps his back pressed against the door and blindly searches for the knob but forces distance between them.

It doesn’t take a psychic to know he’s wary. The stranger sighs and scratches the back of his head. 

“Listen — I ain’t holdin’ you hostage, or anything. You’re free to go.” But before Taylor can even twist his wrist he adds; “Not that I’d really wanna run the risk of facing Casper’s Cannibal Cousin again but that’s just me. You seem like a strong, capable guy. Lemme know how it goes.”

_Fuck. _

Taylor gives him a wary eye. “Are we — I mean… am _I_ actually safe here?”

“With the wards on this place you’d have a hard time being stung by a really pissed-off mosquito.”

“Not funny.”

“Who’s laughing?”

Somehow they end up back in the same positions they were a minute earlier; Taylor’s fingers wet and numb from the glass and the other, well, he couldn’t look more like a middle-aged drunk if he tried; especially now with the coat off and thrown over the back of his chair. 

“Do you have a name?” Taylor tries — and fails — not to let it get to him when he gets only a nod. “Wanna share?”

“Just call me Ryder.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It’s not your name.”

“Yes it is.”

“It’s dumb.”

“You’re dumb.”

A tense and silent stand-off follows. This is why he doesn’t spend much one-on-one time with cis-men, not that Taylor would say that out loud. 

Finally ‘Ryder’ relents; “My first name’s Nik. Nobody calls me Nik — they just call me Ryder. That means you’ll call me Ryder, too.”

Well he won’t, but that’s beside the point. “And where are we? Are we still in New Orleans?”

The question catches Ryder by surprise. 

“‘Course we are. Just a couple’a blocks over from Bourbon.”

“Oh, good.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

He tries not to feel peeled back into layers by the scrutiny of Ryder’s gaze but with eyes like that it’s kind of impossible. Makes him freeze up — words forgotten. 

“Is that really all you wanna ask?” 

His face flushes hot. “No, of course not.”

“Then ask.”

“Ask what?”

“You know what.”

“No I don’t,” again his voice cracks — makes him focus on the wet spot the glass leaves on his jeans rather than the look on Ryder’s face, “like — I _really _don’t. Because… because my head is telling me to ask _‘what happened’_ but when I think about it I automatically default back to the fact that nothing about it makes sense — nothing about it could have been real.”

Ryder takes too long to respond. 

“Just because it doesn’t make sense doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, Taylor.”

And doesn’t _that _just fire off a spark in his brain. Makes him turn and slam the glass down and give Ryder the hardest, worst, and most rueful look he can. 

“Fine — you want me to ask questions? We’ll start with — with _that._ How d’you know my name?”

The man shrugs. “Because I’m being paid to.”

“You’re being…” _—oh the headache—_ “so you were stalking me in the bar?”

“No.”

“Uh, you just admitted it.”

“Uh, no I didn’t.” Taylor must’ve hit a nerve judging by the tick in Ryder’s scarred brow. “Strange as it may seem — and we really ain’t short on strange with all this — I wasn’t hired until _after _I left the Touristy Unicorn.”

That doesn’t help. “Hired for _what?_”

“For protection detail; bodyguard stuff. For you, kid.”

Does he look like his brain is short-circuiting, because that’s definitely how he feels. And in his silence Ryder takes the opportunity to keep talking without being harassed. “I wouldn’t’ve taken it on a normal day but, shit, you ain’t normal. Not even taking into account that you saw me in my booth —”

“— No shit I saw you. You were just sitting there.”

Ryder shakes his head. “Sure was but I was glamoured up to the nines. Nothing under a century or without some heavy magical aid should have been able to see me.”

Taylor disregards his crazy talk — he has proof. “My friend saw you first.”

“Who, the tipsy co-ed?” he barks a laugh, “Nah, she was more focused on the two mashing mouths to my side. Was too hard to enjoy my drink with the sound of sloppy spit-swappin’ for me to forget.

“She may have been seeing the world a little liquored-up but she definitely didn’t know I was there. But you? You looked right at me; saw right through my glamour and with no small amount of effort judgin’ by how sick you looked after.”

_His headache._ And wasn’t that what had started all of… of whatever this was? His headache and wanting to go home, getting lost with no signal, and then…

There’s no resisting the permafrost that blankets over his bones. When Taylor looks at Ryder he doesn’t _see _him; just sees the outline of him and that awful haunting _thing _in his mind’s eye. 

Ryder continues; “You can turn the paranoia down a notch. I was content to mind my own business until I got a call on a damn payphone nearby.”

“A… payphone?”

“Well they don’t ring on their own. And in this town if someone in the know crosses by a phone ringin’ on its lonesome then that means its for them.” He sniffs; brushes something off like it’s no big deal and Taylor’s the fool for not just _knowing._ “Picked it up and there it was in my head: your face, your name, and the message. That’s how you know there’s something heavy hangin’ in the air… the kind of spellwork that can dig into your head without a trace.”

_Magic. Spellwork._ This is too fucking nuts.

Still, he has to ask. “What was the message?”

_“‘Protect him.’” _

How foreboding and creepy that is — well he’ll deal with that later. Because up until shit went down he didn’t _need _protecting. Had done a fair job of protecting himself all his life. But how can you protect yourself from things you don’t know about?

“What was it?” When there’s no quirky quip Taylor knows he’s starting to ask the right things. “What was that _thing _in the cemetery?”

“I…”

“Come on, Mister Answers. Where’d your answers go?”

“Hey, now you just —”

_“What was it?”_

“I don’t know!” Ryder growls through gritted teeth. It’s the first time his posturing slips — shoulders slumped and instinctively seeking comfort in the contents of the flask. “I don’t… I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit; the dead, undead, the undead-dead. But I’ve never seen anything even remotely close to whatever the hell that was.”

_Some bodyguard,_ he wants to say — doesn’t. Strange as it is Taylor finds himself comforted by the fact that he’s not the only one _completely _ignorant. 

Not that it lasts long. Because when his brain finally puts everything together — shadows and skeletal killers and _spellwork _and the fact that the thing he’s been thinking was a flagpole leaning against the wall has a bright crystal atop it and is most likely something ridiculous like a _wizard’s staff _— it shuts off. 

At least he’s got his answers.

Ryder knocks back the rest of the flask and tucks it between the cushions in his chair. Leans forward elbows-on-knees and studies Taylor’s face.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you to ask me what happened before you keeled over,” he says finally, “but now I’m not so sure you wanna know.”

“I do,” he answers on autopilot.

“You sure?”

He’s sure.

The story Taylor expects goes something like…

_“I drew a circle around the creature, sated from its kill. Using the blood of my ancestors and sacred herbs I’ve been cultivating for this exact moment, I conjured magical holy fire and banished the demon back to the depths of Hell.”_

But that’s not what he gets. 

“I thought I had a shot when you went into hiding — you know how damn hard it is to chase something chasin’ somethin’ else through that shit? — but lost it again. Finally found you at the entryway and used the thing’s distraction to get a few arrows lodged in its, uh, well I think it was its back.

“Thing is those were _holy light arrows_ I used. Blessed by every priest in every religion you’ve heard of and some you ain’t. I’ve used those things to take down malformed conjurings, hundred year-old revenants, the works. But it was about as effective as throwing a rock at its head.”

“I’m guessing that’s a bad thing.”

“You’d be guessin’ correctly.”

Taylor runs his hands over his face. Shoves down the thickness that wants to consume his lungs and keep him there; solid, immobile. 

“Okay, okay —” talking more to himself than Ryder, “— okay. This is good. Crazy, but good.”

The look he’s given really shouldn’t be a surprise. “Did I break ya?”

“No — I mean, maybe, but not with that — no you… actually you saved me. So I’m grateful for that. Thank you.”

Ryder snorts. “Finally…”

“But you didn’t save Kristin. So I’m going to push down every… every problem I have with everything you said and pretend with all this crazy that conjurings and holy arrows and whatever-the-fuck-else is real —”

“It is. But, kid —”

“— And you’re gonna help me find some voodoo or hoo-doo or whatever kind of spell you can that’ll bring her back.”

The fact that Ryder doesn’t look the least bit remorseful is an issue he’ll deal with later — though that plate is starting to get a little crowded. But if the universe seems intent on throwing him into this fucking insanity with no warning or even a tutorial mode then he’s going to meet it head-on and screw the rest.

He leans forward and starts rifling through the leather-bound books, tomes, and sheets of paper scattered on the coffee table. “So what here can help us? Do we need a lock of hair, or a personal item, or —”

“She ain’t dead, kid.”

Taylor nods but doesn’t really register what he hears. “Got it. _Dead _meaning, what, her soul hasn’t crossed over yet? Is she still on the, uh, the mortal plane or something?” He looks around wildly; lifts up his feet like he’ll find her hiding there in miniature.

“Shit — is she here with us? Can you see her? Kristin? Krissy?”

“Whoa — okay, yep, you’ve cracked.”

Then Ryder’s hands are on his shoulders and oh hell no. His body reacts before the brain can catch up and he’s pushing Ryder away — giving himself breathing space. 

“Don’t touch me.”

Much like the flask it’s an issue Ryder doesn’t push. Holds his hands up and gives a curt nod but that doesn’t make him look any less concerned. Now he’ll start to argue with the man, because technically it’s _his fault_ Kristin died in the first place. 

“There’s gotta be something —”

“To get you to chill out and listen to me? Yeah I doubt it.”

“— _No._ To help us contact her.”

“Could try a phone.”

Taylor snaps. “This isn’t a joke! I don’t _know _this crazy stuff like you do. So stop making jokes and — and help me!”

“Christ,” Ryder rubs his head — leans forward but doesn’t make a move to put his hands on Taylor again, “if you’d _listen _you’d not sound so damn stupid! She’s not dead, Taylor. The thing didn’t kill her.”

No, no… he saw…

“I won’t say it didn’t get close but she wasn’t the target. I don’t know if that limits it’s powers or… or hell, maybe it was feeling merciful or malicious. But your friend ain’t dead. — In a bad way… but not dead.”

It’s not even in the _realm _of good news — _what did that mean, ‘in a bad way’ _— but it’s the best news he’s heard yet so yeah he fucking runs with it. Leaps to his feet and doesn’t even bother trying to misdirect Ryder this time because not only is the door unlocked but he’s going to see Kristin _alive. _

And, really, with the zeal in which he was ready to pursue some form of necromancy to bring her back he’s kind of disappointed in how surprised Ryder sounds behind him.

“Kid — where d’you think you’re goin’ exactly?”

Still walking to the door, only backwards now. “Where do you think? Is she at the hospital, which one? Come on — take me there.” 

“Well that ain’t happening but regardless how about we stay up here instead?”

“How about we don’t?”

“Kid —”

“First I need you to stop calling me that. Second I’ll grab a cab if I need to. Thanks, Nik—Ryder—whatever for saving me but I need to go see her.”

Ryder doesn’t stop him from slamming the apartment door behind him and finding his way out. That must mean he’s not entirely devoted to this _bodyguard _job, right? If that’s even really the case. Not like he has any proof.

It’s probably guilt at not saving her in time, rationalizes Taylor as he looks around the crowded hallway only to spot a winding, iron-wrought staircase almost hidden in the corner. 

That makes the most sense. He feels guilty and there was nothing he could have even done in the first place.

_Though, finding out where Ryder gets those hallelujah arrows might help._

He’s at the bottom of the steps when he remembers Vera had his phone last — is halfway through entertaining the idea of going back up to ask Ryder if he could borrow his when he takes in the ground level.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

It’s still dark outside but dawn has to be on the approach — last call having already been there, done that. 

The bar is small and he can only think of it as _oaken._ Wood floors on wooden-panel walls with a wooden bartop in the corner decorated in carvings so small and detailed they could only have been done by hand. Even the booths are wooden on the outside with what look like rich mossy-green velvet lining. 

But the place doesn’t smell like a woodshop — not how one would expect what has to be a quarter of the population of Louisiana’s deforestation, _has to be_ — rather a forest. Like all the wood is still growing and alive. Pine needles and sap and mulchy earth digging into his bare toes and proving life continues to live underfoot.

Though when he wiggles his toes Taylor is almost surprised to discover he’s got his shoes on.

The place is empty save for two patrons and a lanky young man behind the counter. 

One man, hulking in stature no doubt even if he’s bent over the table before him, scribbles diligently in a notebook with a glass of something bright at his side. Must have one of those cheesy lite-cubes within because he could swear the drink is _pulsing _color.

The other is a woman mostly obscured by the bar and her ombre violet sheen of hair. She’s gotta be decorated for Mardi Gras though the bone-white hand she twirls a lock of hair around would be more suited for a _Día de Muertos_ party.

She notices him first — offers a flawless grin of black lipstick and white teeth before she learns forward and whispers something to the bartender.

He rounds on a practically choreographed flourish of his heel. Beams wide and unabashed as though he’s greeting an old friend and not a complete stranger.

“Taylor, my mortal! Good to see you again. You look famished. Are you famished? You look famished. I should get you something. Are you a vodka-type or a gin-type? You know what — I’ll fix a couple options up. Variety is the spice of life!”

Before Taylor can even process the English language enough to turn him down the bartender disappears in a shock of his albino-white hair. Leaves him staring at the silvery fabric of the partition.

“Garrus is a hoot, isn’t he?” asks the goth girl — she waves over a hand and pats a stool beside her in invitation. “Come, come! I wanna see what he whips up and you will too.”

He casts a longing look to what has to be the front door of the place — the only thing that _isn’t _wood, as he notes the iron decor with irony. But can’t even step in that direction before she clears her throat in a way that says she won’t take no for an answer.

So… he sits? He sits.

“I’m surprised Ryder didn’t come down with you. Or did you let him drink himself asleep?”

Taylor shakes his head. “No, he’s… he let me go.”

“Huh, funky.” She taps long dark nails against her cheek and stares at him with wonder. Underneath the strange combination of lights she looks even more pale than he thought — almost translucent. It must be her makeup that makes it look like her veins run black under her skin. 

There’s a throbbing in his temples so Taylor looks away out of habit.

“You should call your friend back.”

“Why? It’ll be a good show — and even if it’s not your fancy you’ll still get free booze out of it.”

“Well I don’t drink.”

“Drink what, vodka, gin? I knew I called you for a tequila man.”

“No,” and headache aside he looks grim into her purple color-contacts, “like at all. I’m sober.”

Just as the girl’s expression falls into embarrassed horror the curtain brushes back as if by a gust of wind. The bartender Garrus barrels forward with an actual _cauldron _in his arms and every nook and twiggy-armed cranny filled with various corked bottles and vials.

“Not for lo~ong!” he sing-songs. Drops his things carelessly on the bar surface and starts picking through them intently. “Now I could have sworn I had more cane root than this, but maybe if I sub in —”

Taylor goes to speak but the gaunt hand on his arm stops him short. 

“Garrus, he’s _sober._”

“I _know,_ Ivy my love, I heard. Honestly what was Ryder _thinking _trying to unload all this on the poor man without even offering him a drink?”

Ivy gives a sigh of honestly and precariously balances on thick-sole heels to reach over and grab Garrus’ next glassy victim out of reach.

“H-Hey,” he practically whines, “that’s not in the spirit of things!”

“Listen to me,” and Taylor’s grateful she’s going through all the trouble but can’t not laugh when she sandwiches her friend’s face in both hands, “sweetheart — _he is sober;_ dry, straight-laced, whatever you want to call it — go for it. But _this human no drinkey._” 

If that’s what it would have taken for Taylor to get the man to stop he isn’t entirely sure he’d have had the guts to do it. 

As it is Garrus looks like he’s taking it personally before their eyes meet and his face goes flushed pink all the way to the tips of his rather pointy ears.

_“Oh.”_

Ivy resumes her seat cheerily. “My work here is done.”

“S-Sorry,” Taylor tries to offer, “I’ll take a coke if you’re really, uh, insistent.”

Garrus is interrupted before he can answer. And by a voice that rings startlingly familiar, too.

“Why not whip up one of those old cream colas for him, Garrus? You were just talking about how much you missed making them.”

It’s enough to put the pep back in his leather-booted step. Has Garrus clapping in delight and pointing between them to the only occupied booth with a wink. 

“Darling, you’re a genius!”

Garrus gathers up his cauldron and brews; dashes back behind the curtain. Taylor meanwhile whirls around on the stool cushion to the vaguely recognizable face previously ducked in concentration.

Krum — that was his name, right? The more-mountain-than-man he had bumped into heading home from rehearsal earlier that day. 

Who gave Taylor the early triggers of a panic attack in how his skin seemed to turn to a _literal _mountain under the company lights. 

Who pushes up an almost comically tiny pair of spectacles and gazes back at Taylor with similar vague recognition. 

“Understudy-boy?” He pulls off his glasses and wipes the lenses with the hem of his sweater — as if _he’s _the one hallucinating things and not the other way around. “Well I’ll be, it’s you!”

Ivy joins the conversation while sipping her margarita through a stirring straw. “You know this guy, Krom?”

“K-Krum.” corrects Taylor. 

“Well actually,” says the man in question sheepishly as he slides out of his seat and comes to join them, “it _is _Krom. It’s a family name, too, and I’m very proud of it. But mortals never hear it right and I just sort of stopped correcting them.”

Ivy croons. “You gotta get thicker skin you big lug.”

When Krom tries to take the stool next to him, though, Taylor flinches back violently. Practically falls off his seat in his haste to get back. His ‘little throbbing’ is a full-on migraine now; the lights too bright and the smells too weird and he has to back up and steady himself on the nearest support column to keep from vomiting all over the nice shiny floors. 

Like most concerned samaritans Ivy and Krom are on him in an instant. Their voices blurring together with the ringing in his ears; “Honey are you okay? — what happened — oh no did I hurt him — go get Ryder!”

“NO!” 

He’s startled when he realizes it’s _him _yelling — not them. Blinks through teary eyes to look into the expressions of two ordinary people warped and twisted by his traitorous mind. 

Ivy’s makeup looks melded to her face — like if she catches the light a certain way he’ll see her skeleton and the lines above are the tension of her muscles. And Krom is still a literal mountain man but in high-granite definition; he swears he even hears stone grind with every movement.

“Oh _god_…” he wails and covers his eyes. Scratches at them like maybe he can claw off the tears instead of just wiping them away. 

In the bright darkness there’s muttered, muffled noises. Footsteps echoing on wood, then metal.

Then the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knows there’s a hand hovering just above the surface of him. 

“The more you go on fightin’ it, kid, the more it’ll hurt.” 

He doesn’t have to open his eyes to imagine the look on Ryder’s face.

Words seem impossible but he finally manages to grit it out. “I won’t.”

“Won’t what?”

“I won’t give in. I’m sober. I’m sober!”

He manages two good smacks to his skull before Ryder snatches his wrist ironclad. “Hey—Hey! Stop that!”

“I’m sober fuck’s sakes! This should have stopped! I’m sober and I’m _not. crazy!_”

They struggle over his hand but Ryder’s strength beats out Taylor’s fright and panic. Just lets it hang limp in midair in the calloused grip. 

“You were up there with me fully ready to take on some high-level necromancy bullshit and _this _is what sets you off?” 

“You were gonna let him do _what?!_”

“Relax, Iv’, relax,” Ryder sighs, “I wasn’t gonna let him _do it._ But still he believed. You _did _believe, didn’t you?”

Did he? He doesn’t know. Can’t even tell if he’s still awake right now or if this is all some awful feverish nightmare he can only hope to never have again with the help of his sponsor. 

Ryder tries again. Closer, this time — almost a whisper.

“Didn’t you?”

“I —” the whole bar hangs on his every word, “— I think so.”

“So believe me now when I say this: you aren’t crazy. Weird I guess, and maybe a bit gutsy. But not crazy.”

It isn’t much. But it’s enough for him to pry his eyes open and look at the man above him through the tears. 

“You don’t get it. I… they look like…”

“Like what?”

He shudders the words out; _“Like monsters.”_

_“HA!” _

The cackle — or shriek — is so loud and so close it startles both of them out of their closeness; out of the intimacy of his admission. Makes them both look at where Ivy sits cross-legged on the floor with them sucking on a lollipop. 

“Well I should sure hope so,” she teases, “because my glamour looks like a cheap imitation of the real thing! That’s what I get for skimping with B-O-G-O spell goods.”

_Glamour._ He knows that word. And Ryder knows he knows too judging by the wry little smile he gets. “Yeah, them too.”

“But —”

“Glamours are for all kinds’a things, kid. Here, c’mon up ya get,” with both hands Ryder helps him stand, “that particular one of mine was for secrecy. Most common ones you’ll run into though are harmless little shifts — ways to make the not-so-human look a little bit more that way.”

There’s a gasp and all eyes fall on Krom, now fully stone. His hairline replaced by filed-off pointed edges and skin rippling with crystalline sediment. 

“You can see through glamours?” He asks, mortified.

Ivy’s black lips peel back with her grin. “Wicked.”

Garrus appears from around the bar with interest. Still pale but there’s no denying the actual point and tilt of his ears or the way his skin seems to almost shimmer. His eyes pale but reflective like bright diamonds. 

“I wondered what set off my wards when Ryder here dragged you in. Seeing through glamours is some high-level magic. What’ve you charmed?” He looks Taylor over with interest.

“What have I… what?”

Ryder answers for him. “Already did my due diligence, guys. He’s not wearing anything charmed — he _is _charmed. Can see through the veil _au natural._”

“Wicked.” repeats Ivy.

“Guess you’re my not-so-mortal, huh?”

Krom shakes his head with hands clasped together. “No wonder you were so frightened at the company. I’m so sorry, Taylor. I had no idea.”

Taylor swallows but manages a smile. “It’s… it’s okay. Not your fault, right?”

And the more he looks at them — _really _looks instead of seeing passing glimpses and resisting their existence — the less everything hurts. The ringing in his ears fades and like a drum at the end of a song his head abruptly clears. Along with the clouds that seem to hang invisible over his head every time he has one of his hallucinations.

But they _aren’t _hallucinations. They’re real. 

It’s all real. 

There’s a hesitation before Ryder lightly touches his shoulder. Taylor doesn’t flinch away — in fact a little human (maybe?) warmth is kinda comforting.

“You good?”

“Y-Yeah, I think so,” he inhales shakily, “I just can’t believe it’s all… I mean that it’s not in my head. It’s real. Everything I’ve seen is… is real.”

But everything means _everything._ Makes his heart settle down somewhere in the region his stomach ought to be occupying. 

Makes him look Ryder head-on.

“So why does it want me dead?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	4. Thrown to the Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turns out there have been some unusual fatalities hiding under the city surface. Nik decides to go on the defensive and find a protection spell for Taylor that requires a rare ingredient only found in the hands of the Bayou werewolves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** language, alcohol, needles

Mid-yawn Garrus slides something in front of him that smells like the first bitter chill of winter with a peppermint leaf for garnish.  


“That’ll put a little pep in your step —” the fae hesitates, mutters something under his breath, before he gives an affirmative nod, “— yes, yes it’s the Garrus guarantee.”

“And what could it do on _accident?_” Ivy asks beside; pulls the concoction over before Taylor even has a chance to grab the straw.

“Why, milady, I’m not sure I like your tone!”

“And I’m not sure I trust anything _sans liqueur_ made by your hand.”

Garrus visibly wilts and takes the drink back.

Taylor can’t help but feel like he’s somehow offended him by not drinking. Doesn’t mean he’s going to start just to make someone else happy, but —

“You look like a man on a self-guilt mission. Not necessary, my mortal. I relish the challenge.”

It’s a relief to look up and see Garrus’ determined smile. But he _is _tired, and tries not to yawn again with his mouth uncovered.

“Dunno why —” —_yawn_— “— I’m so tired anyway,” Taylor mutters, “I was passed out for a few good hours at least, right?”

Krom looks up from his notebook — now positioned at the bar with the rest of them instead of on his own. “Unconsciousness doesn’t provide the same type of relaxation that willing sleep does. You’re basically running on empty.”

“Oh,” then to Garrus, “you wouldn’t happen to have a coffee pot, or, uh, coffee cauldron?”

“Alas, no, but —”

“_‘But’_ there _is _a world beyond these walls. Or have you boys forgotten?”

Like the Stooges all three heads turn in sequence to focus on Ivy and her look of bemused exasperation. For a bespelled revenant she’s awfully expressive. Ivy insists the look is _au natural_ but Garrus admitted to seeing her apply a little bit of rouge to her _risorus† _cheek muscles like a contour when she wasn’t listening.

“If you’re in the mood, Taylor, we could head out and nab you a few shots of espresso. That’ll keep you moving.”

“Or he could just go back up to Ryder’s and nap,” mutters Krom with every intention of not being heard.

Ivy scoffs. “Well that’s no fun.”

And while the thought of leaving the safety of these four still-strange walls doesn’t really appeal to what little sense of self-preservation he has, Taylor would be lying if he wasn’t already starting to feel the downsides of a caffeine addiction.

But… “Ryder said the wards of this place would protect me — that whatever attacked me is still out there.”

“Well sure it is. But it’s daylight sweetheart — and I’m gonna go out on a severed limb when I say this but I doubt that beastie has a glamour.”

He glances over to the entry door where the tails of Ryder’s leather coat had vanished hours ago. “Should we wait for him?” Aren’t bodyguards for tailing along after all?

But Ivy doesn’t seem all too thrilled with the idea.

“Let the man work. He’s a buzzkill anyway. I’ll be with you — and I’m a lot more durable than I look.”

But Taylor must still look doubtful. Because she walks around and places her purpling hands one on his shoulder and the other on Krom’s — jostles him out of his concentration with a “Hm?”

“Between Krom and I you’ll be just fine.”

“Wait — I’m coming along?” The stone troll asks in surprise.

“Are you _really _passing up on the chance to enter a small-town java house? All those future playwrights and lost poets just _begging _for you to observe them in their natural habitat?”

Judging by the look on his surprisingly-expressive (for, you know, a guy made of stone) face no; no he’s not.

If Ryder trusts them enough to leave Taylor in their company for the last few hours as he has then it’s for a good reason, right? He’s safe with them, right?

“Garrus?” Taylor throws him a look and a raised eyebrow. Might as well make a whole thing of it with no man left behind after all.

But the fae declines with a polite shake of the head. “Nah; someone’s got to be here to keep Ryder from raising an army to find you, should you be unfortunate enough to return _after _him.”

“And the bar.” Krom adds; earns a thoughtful look from Garrus’ sparkling eyes.

“Indeed. But maybe bring me back some of their little human product for me to experiment on, darling? I’d appreciate it.”

There’s absolutely no way Krom could miss the eyelashes being fluttered his way… yet somehow Ivy and Taylor are the only ones who notice.

Still the granite that make up his cheeks go a little rosy in color. “S-Sure.”

“You’re a shining star. A real…” he taps his chin in thought of an apt compliment, “_muscovite mica?††_”

Somehow it’s so bad that it works — if Krom’s duck-and-fluster is anything to go by.

Ivy packs up her bag, Krom pockets his notebook, and Taylor leaves a hand-written note assuring his competence and agreement in being whisked away to leave with Garrus. They’re even at the door when Taylor looks between them with a moment of _‘duh, you dimwit’_ and uses his body as a door shield.

“Your faces.”

“What — something wrong with my tusks?” Krom claps a hand over his mouth sheepishly. Ivy though — she can’t be bothered and yanks the mortal aside with ease.

“Relax, honey. Remember that it takes — Krom your tusks are pearly as always relax — a powerful charm for the average mortal to see through glamours. To them nothing will be out of the ordinary.”

“So, wait, what will I see?”

And there _has _to be a certain twitch to her grin — something that ticks all of her visible muscle tissue more than average.

“You’ll see my best angle. Which, for the record, is all of them, but in all our monstrous bliss.”

Krom huffs. “Speak for yourself.”

“Less talky more walky!”

She ushers them out into the early morning light.

* * *

Not that he doubts Ivy — it only takes about twenty minutes in her presence to know her confidence isn’t just well-placed but well-earned — but it still takes Taylor a few hot minutes and some very intense stares at passersby to fully assure him that their glamours are infallible.

Which definitely doesn’t help the nerves he gets when he starts thinking about why _he alone_ can see through them, but that’s a low-priority problem.

“I can’t believe it,” the trio turns down a familiar corner, “that you guys were so close all this time. I took this way to rehearsal once when they were fixing the pothole in my complex parking lot.”

“That’s why I picked that theatre, actually. Short walk to Garrus’.” Krom comments — doesn’t realize what he’s said until he looks at Taylor and Ivy snickering together in confusion.

“And where’s your place, Krom?”

He points somewhere off. “A few blocks that way.”

“So farther than the _Shift,_ huh?”

Either he can’t or won’t answer. But it’s enough for them to let it go.

Another block of pensive silence before Ivy _thwacks _the back of his legs with her leather bag. “I _could _read your mind but the spell doesn’t work well out in fresh air. So _drachma _for your thoughts?”

“Well…” he debates saying something else but doesn’t, “I was just thinking since we’re so close to my place maybe we could stop by? I could grab a bag?”

_Grab Kristin’s bag. Fuck. He still needs to go find her at the hospital. But Ryder promised to take him when he’s safe. Can’t risk her life again._

And maybe he anticipated them being against it because he’s surprised at Ivy’s greedy grin.

“Oooh, can we peek through your stuff?”

“Uh… sure?”

“Then I’m down for an adventure.”

“It’s not —”

A finger adorned in a lace glove shushes him. “Hush, little mortal boy. Let me have this.”

Lucky for him Ivy doesn’t even think to ask him to chip in for the coffee. Lucky for the baristas she’s got more than drachma in that handbag.

“Your usual, Ivy?” Asks a handsome man at the register, and it’s pretty obvious why he remembers her order. While they trade witty banter Taylor helps Krom pick out a bag of coffee beans for Garrus to play with — he’s no expert but since it sounds like he’s the only one who’ll be drinking it he’s a little selfish.

While Krom heads to the counter he snatches his drink up and chugs it with no regard for manners. Yes the steaming roast scalds the living crap out of his tongue but the quicker the caffeine kicks in the better.

Doesn’t mean he’s not sheepish when he tilts the cup for the last possible drop and Ivy’s laughing in his face. Only she’s allowed to laugh — especially since she buys him a second to savor.

There’s a second of panic when Taylor pats his pockets — keys, wallet, _where is the phone_ — and remembers Vera high-tailing it with a cellular hoard. He debates mentioning her (and the funny difference between _who _and _what_) to his new friends but thinks against it.

Low-priority problems and all.

Immediately Ivy besets the place with exuberance. Pokes this and lifts up that and starts to rummage around his kitchen cupboards like she’s searching for the Holy Grail. Krom is slightly _less obvious_ with his intentions but definitely zeroes in on the sole bookshelf and it’s contents.

Taylor doesn’t know what to think. So much has changed in the last twelve hours — changed in him, in the company he keeps, even in how he views the world around him — but not in here. Even Kristin’s half-drunk teacup from his dramatic confessional still rests on the kitchen island.

“You eat a _lot _of fish.” concludes Ivy while shutting his freezer. “I don’t know of any creatures who have a diet solely of fish that isn’t environmental.”

“I — sorry?”

“You can tell a lot about a creature based on it’s nest. But this is some pretty mortal stuff.”

There’s a snort behind them; Krom actually _shady side-eyes _his small collection.

“Unless you count an obsession with Oscar Wilde.”

“I just like —”

“Nah nah,” Ivy argues, “that’s still very mortal of him.”

While they continue to discuss their findings Taylor starts inching towards his room. “You guys do that. I’m gonna… uh…” They don’t seem to mind him leaving them hanging.

First and foremost — he changes. Rids himself of the smell of sweat and grave and something that’s left his jeans a little sour (he has a vague flashback to the instant before passing out and tries to tell himself it’s the body’s natural response to terror, totally normal and not at all embarrassing).

The rest is just shoving things into a bag. A crumpled-up duffel he got with a gym membership that ended up being a waste of money with the lack of inclusive changing rooms. At least it was good for something.

The circled date on his bedroom calendar catches his eye and Taylor’s so very glad they stopped by.

He’s got a needle halfway in his gut when Ivy wanders in like she owns the place. Stops and stares with wide, glassy eyes.

“Shouldn’t a medical professional be doing that? Can I watch? Does it hurt? I forget what it feels like to have flesh. Ooh look you can pinch it!”

Taylor tries not to move the syringe too much while hastily batting away Ivy’s probing fingers. “Stop—Stop Ivy please! I don’t want this to break under my skin.”

He doesn’t mean to sound so strained — but it gets her to back off in the doorway. Doesn’t stop her clinical analysis of his every move though.

“_Now _can I ask questions?” She asks only when he’s secured his bandaid and disposed of his needles. It feels strange to say but only because up until now there’s only been one other person to see him like that.

“I guess.”

“What is it?”

She picks up the little bottle and stares intently at the contents. Only when he’s got the rest of his supplies packed up does he pluck it from her and add it to the set.

“Hormones.”

“Are you deficient?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then why do that?”

“Because you can’t be deficient in something your body barely makes.”

“My question stands.”

Taylor purses his lips. It’s no ‘getting caught with a binder in gym class’ but it’s not exactly his favorite topic of conversation either. Ivy waits patiently, though, blinking owlishly.

“I mean — I’m trans,” that’s not the part he’s had an iffy time discussing, “I’m not shy about saying it. You — do monsters… I mean can they be…?”

“If I’m understanding right then yes.”

“Okay. So. Us mortals don’t have magic to fix all our problems; or… not on a normal day. So instead we just…” He reenacts his injection, miming the plunger in hand.

“Does it hurt?”

“It’s a needle. Kinda.”

“Does it help?”

That’s something he answers with no doubt in his mind. “Immensely.”

“Okay then,” she pops on her heels, “if you’re grabbing a bag though can we take your boxed cheesy noodles? Krom wants them but he’s too shy to ask.”

One conversation as casual as the other. Thank god — he can only monologue with a script to follow.

“Sure. You got it.”

“Great!” She squeals and claps in delight before rushing off.

Yeah, pretty great.

* * *

Less so when their quest brings them back to where they started — everything much the same except for the grim frown Ryder refuses to shake.

“See, what’d I tell you? Safe and sound.” Garrus says by way of greeting; flashes them a _look _when Ryder’s back is turned and rather than disposing of the rest of the hunter’s drink he discreetly knocks it back himself.

“Do you have a death wish?!”

He doesn’t give Taylor a chance to answer; rounds on the pair of Ivy and Krom instead. “In what world is it a good idea to take a kid with a target on his back on a _coffee run?_”

Krom shrinks back (quite well despite his size) but Ivy isn’t having it. Stands up straighter with her hands on her hips and focuses the empty fire of her eyes straight into Ryder’s soul.

“Don’t you talk to me that way, Nik Ryder. Or would you rather I take my pound of flesh owed _literally?_”

And judging by the look in her eye she’s not kidding. Makes Ryder falter before fixating back on Taylor.

Only Ivy isn’t done. “Oh no no no, don’t you harass him either. Poor thing was wilting in the dark here.” She throws an arm over his shoulders and pulls him in for a strangely cold hug. “We’re here and there’s not a hair out of place on his chinny-chin chin. So get over yourself.”

_Now _she’s done; pushes past him with a not-so-subtle shove that doesn’t look like much but sends him staggering back on uneven footing.

Taylor holds up a finger before Ryder can even try.

“I needed to get some stuff from my place. Thanks for the concern though.”

When he walks passed the hunter follows doggedly at his heels. For a guy who was content to let him leave the apartment last night he’s certainly put on a nannying personality.

“I get that,” it’s obvious he’s trying to keep a level tone, “but things are a lil’ bit different than they were last night.”

Excitedly Garrus takes the bag of coffee from Krom — ushers the troll to join him into the back to start experimenting. Taylor swivels on his stool to where Ryder stands with arms crossed.

Ivy watches with interest. “Meaning…?”

Though he was all words a mere moment ago, Ryder seems to have to come to grips with whatever needs to be said. Steels himself and sets his jaw so hard Taylor can hear his teeth grind together.

“Denna and Carlo are dead.”

The sass drains out of Ivy in one fell swoop.

“What — _both _of them? How—when?”

“Carlo two nights ago — vamps were keepin’ it quiet as long as they could until someone could get a word up the coast. Denna the night before that.”

“In-house hits?”

“That’s what I thought — ‘specially what with Carlo’s debts to the Smoke. But it wasn’t an ordinary killing. There’s a _body._”

“That’s impossible.”

“Don’t believe me?”

“Vampires don’t leave _corpses,_ Nik.”

“Well Izzy wants you to do the autopsy, so you can see for yourself.” He fishes a crumpled up piece of paper out of his pocket and lets Ivy snatch it from him.

If they weren’t suddenly no laughs and all hard frowns Taylor might applaud them for their character. But this was the same Ivy who laughed herself to tears when she explained to him how she became her own possessed corpse — if she’s not laughing it’s probably for a good reason.

She clutches the paper in a sinewy grasp. “And Denna?”

Ryder just shakes his head.

“It’s a miracle I got to her body before the mortals did.”

“Busy boy…” She grabs her things in a rush. Is halfway to the door when she turns back and scampers over to peck a kiss on Taylor’s cheek.

“I’ll be back later, sweets,” when her lips are close to his ear; _“do whatever he tells you now. Stay safe; stay alive.”_

Then she’s out like it never even happened. Leaves the air hanging uncomfortable with the woodsy scent and stale coffee on the back of Taylor’s tongue.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s happening?” he finally asks.

“That depends,” Ryder steps closer and takes a tentative seat on the stool to his left, “on whether or not you really wanna know how much danger you’re in.”

_What a loaded statement._ No, no he doesn’t. But… “I have to, don’t I?”

A flash in Ryder’s gaze; pride maybe — or pity.

“Carlo de la Rosa was head of the vampires in town. Nothing fancy or formal; he was oldest and had the most ties to the community. I think he was cousin to the first mayor or summin’. Either way… he’d been around a long time.”

“Old vampire was important, got it.”

“Good. So —”

“So he’s dead though.”

His sigh sounds so… _defeated._ Not a good look to have on a bodyguard, really.

“Yeah, yeah he is. And his kin tried to cover it up. Vampires don’t leave bodies, Taylor. They leave piles of ash. That’s one of those facts of nature things; stuff that doesn’t get messed with. If there’s a body then there’s a chance it’s still alive. But… not this time.

“Hopefully Ivy’ll have some answers. She’s pretty well-known in the local community; dunno if she mentioned. Her services cost an arm and she won’t hesitate in takin’ a leg, too, but she’ll figure out what happened faster than I could.”

No wonder Ivy is the way she is, then.

“And this ‘Denna’ chick?”

“Now _that _is a fuckin’ mystery,” Ryder growls, “one I almost don’t want solved. Real powerful shapeshifter — she had herself enough faces to form a one-woman zoo. Whatever was strong enough to take _her _down isn’t something I want to meet on a lonely night.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes Taylor suspicious. Makes him bring a leg up against his chest and hug it tight — like whatever’s hunting these people down is lurking just out of sight.

And maybe it is.

He sort of gets Ryder’s panic, now.

Ryder’s a direct guy. But right now he’s anything but.

Taylor’s a little disappointed that it takes him as long as he does to come to the final conclusion — one Ryder must have reached hours ago.

“You think that the thing that killed those two was the same thing that was after Krissy and me.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“And we still don’t know what it is.”

“No, we don’t.”

“But _if _it did kill them… it’s —”

“It’s dangerous; but we knew that. So instead of focusing on the shit we know let’s focus on the shit we don’t. Like how to keep you safe.”

He’s not overly fond of the fact that _knowing how to keep him safe_ is the first thing on their list of unknowns but hey, it’s on a list somewhere and that’s a good thing.

“I’m filled with equal parts terror and caffeine —”

A loud cry interrupts him; followed by a _bang _and light blue smoke beginning to unfurl from the bottom of the back room curtain. Somehow it only adds to the aesthetic of it all — doesn’t it?

“— so; any ideas?”

Instead of answering — you know, like any normal person would — Ryder just hops off his stool and bounds up the steps to the second floor two at a time.

“Is that a yes? Or a no?” Taylor calls; realizes just as the blue smoke starts to tickle his nose that he’s not gonna get an answer.

“Ryder?” He calls up — why does the smoke smell like a seafood restaurant? — then leaps up and stumbles after him. “Hey, Ryder! I asked — _wait up!_”

* * *

If he thought the outdoors smelled like Bayou before he was sorely mistaken — in the _actual _Bayou it’s more swamp and something peppery in the air.

“Come on. Kristof ain’t exactly a fan of tardiness.”

He jogs to catch up to Ryder’s coat-tails. Whoever _Kristof _is, the fact that Ryder’s devil-may-care attitude is put on hold to meet his needs says a _lot _about him; that he shouldn’t be kept waiting being the most vital.

Large tiki torches line the darkness around them — chase away the world beyond the well-worn earthen path they walk towards their destination. Fireflies hover around the flames with interest; _who are you, bright light, and why do you tower before me?_ Taylor also catches sight of what look like dried flowers tied to the base where the flames are hottest.

They make the air smell sickly sweet and heavy.

“Whats on your mind?”

He looks over to see Ryder watching him instead of where they’re headed. Not like there’s much chance of getting lost with cattails walling off their winding road.

What a loaded question. “What _isn’t?_” He poses his own instead.

Ryder actually _laughs._ And it doesn’t sound laced with sarcasm or spite. He makes a note to check the hunter’s breath for that whiskey when he gets a chance.

“Well, ya got me there.”

But he also knows there’s a truth to be posed. “Uhm, I mean if you really wanna know —”

“Sure, sure.”

“Okay…” Not that it helps him narrow it down… “Well right now I’m having flashbacks to this scripted miniseries I was in during college. Part of our junior final — my first and only time in front of a camera, too. It was called _Endless Summer_ and I’m pretty sure we bought these exact tiki sticks wholesale for the fake jungle.”

It’s a good memory and Taylor’s smiling remembering it. Only when he looks over Ryder isn’t as amused.

“_Really?_ All this goin’ on… and you’re thinkin’ about that?”

“It’s not my fault werewolves know a good bargain when they see one.”

“Do us both a favor — don’t mention that to anyone we’re gonna meet.”

Up ahead the sounds of nature start to give way to voices and music; the tapping of lap-style bongos and a few acoustic guitar chords. Honestly he’s just glad there aren’t any moonshine jug flutes or washing board banjos.

Taylor takes a moment to get his thoughts back on the path in front of them and tries again.

“I never really thought about if there was _more _to the world or not, you know? Like if people asked me about ghosts or aliens or Bigfoot I didn’t actually_ care._ I used to be really into fantasy books and movies growing up but I knew it was all stage makeup and props and green screens. And once you know how the magic is made… well for me it made it all pretty mundane.”

There’s a soft snort beside him. “That’s the problem with mortals — you get too busy searching for answers and settle on the first one you get.”

“Well no offense but I’m pretty sure the average person doesn’t automatically believe in faeries and — and _Bayou werewolves._”

“What makes you so certain?”

The look Ryder gives him bores a hole straight into his chest. Makes Taylor take a second to doubt himself even though there’s never been anything to doubt before.

“I just am.”

“And look where that got you. All that certainty down the drain and a crazy unknown evil comin’ at ya.”

_Speaking of…_ “Are you sure we’re safe here?” He looks around but doubts the flowers and their scent are more than decorative — especially not where that _thing _is involved. “Why wouldn’t this Kristof guy meet us at the _Shift? _You know… with wards and stuff.”

They round a bend; there’s a small wooden pergola at the end of their journey and louder noise beyond. What looks like the distant lights of windows on a cabin.

But Ryder stops him with a palm flat on his chest. Taylor pulls back on uncomfortable instinct. He’s sweating enough as it is.

“Make no mistake Taylor,” he warns, “whatever’s huntin’ you aside — no one is ever safe. Not even at the _Shift._ If something is powerful enough or pissed enough to want to get to you then it’ll find a way.

“As for the Pack…” He throws a grim look forward. “Consider everything you know about werewolves to be a lie. They can change whenever they want. The wolf is as much a part of them as it is separate.

“I wouldn’t normally fuck with this route or Kristof’s Pack but the wolves have a monopoly on most of the native plants. It’s how they keep their lifestyle intact. And in order to do this protection spell Ivy so _generously _gifted you — we need something only they can provide. And we’re about to bare the backs of our necks to an Alpha to get it.”

The hunter only seems satisfied when Taylor’s face goes pale. Suddenly he’s regretting not having more than coffee before their outing.

“Do you mean that, uh, literally? Or…” He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to. Ryder’s face says it all.

_Oh boy._

Ryder gives his arm a light smack and they continue forward. “Chin up — if there’s one thing that can be said for these guys its that they know how to have a good time.”

Judging by the large bonfire that comes into view — dims the torches around them into just another speck from a firefly in comparison — heck yeah they know how to have a good time.

As a fan of city amenities himself, Taylor was expecting something a little less _permanent _out here in the middle of nowhere. Where even their cab driver — _“why don’t you own something cool, like an off-road motorcycle?” “I do own something cool: this coat”_ — had a hard time finding a place to drop them off without debating charging them for getting swamp on his tires.

But the two-story cabin looks pretty permanent. As do the trailers parked around it. Some of them with wooden supports to keep the wheels from sinking in too low — some without wheels at all.

This isn’t a place for the wolves to gather — it’s where they live, and breathe, and _thrive._

Taylor tries to stop at the makeshift gate but Ryder keeps going — makes him jog to catch back up.

“Can we just _walk in here?_” He asks in a hushed breath.

Ryder nods. “Something to remember as a mortal, kid. We’re intruding in their space on means of just existin’. So don’t half-ass it; act like you belong even if you don’t. The rest’ll follow.”

Here’s hoping he can.

“I told you to stop calling me _kid._”

“You really wanna work out nicknames now?”

“No — but, I dunno — on the ride back to town, maybe.”

For the most part those gathered don’t seem to pay much mind to two strangers. Small groups sit in plastic lawn chairs around fire pits with cans and bottles. A young couple laugh together while stringing up globe lights around a trailer awning. Someone must be grilling in the distance and it smells _amazing._

There’s a high-pitched squeal and from a thicket of tall grass beyond bursts half a dozen children and their dogs at play — careless youth stumbling in the earth underfoot as they play some game of chase.

_Wait, are those really dogs, or…?_

“Aw _hell naw,_ I know I ain’t seein’ what I’m seein’ right now.”

So much for whole-assing their intrusion.

They’re stopped just short of the porch steps leading up to the cabin. A group of three men — more muscle than men — and an equally ripped woman stand from their chairs with all eyes focused on them.

No, not _them._ On _Nik._

Nik who’s suddenly smiling all casual and friendly — no warmth to it or crinkle in his eyes but definitely trying his best to seem at ease. His expression and body language is totally different. That of a friendly man — maybe not the most personable, but one of those ‘its the attempt that counts’ types.

Taylor recognizes it right away; the masquerade, the donning of a persona. Playing the part. It’s impressive; _disturbing,_ but impressive.

A flat-palm gesture keeps Taylor back while his bodyguard takes a few steps up. Well he tries; one boot on the creaking steps and the three (brothers, they look like) look ready to rip his throat out. Teeth bared and white-knuckled grips threatening to break their beer bottle necks.

“Back off, Ryder.”

“Y’ain’t welcome here. Guess you gotta death wish tho’, huh?”

“Now gentlemen,” Ryder schmoozes with a thicker emphasis on his accent than normal, “that ain’t exactly in the _Mardi Gras_ spirit.”

“_Au contraire,_ y’ piece-a shit,” one snarls, “the Hunt is tradition fer us. And I don’ think Kristof’s picked this year’s pelt yet…”

Taylor isn’t the only onlooker to the not-so-smooth talking, however. Shifts over slightly to watch the woman where she stands back and watches; sips her drink like they’re discussing the weather.

For a pack of wolves she’s lean in an almost feline way. Skin dark-née-umber under the yellowed porch light with muscles rippling just beneath the surface. Hair cropped close with the hint of a tattoo at the nape of her neck that fades into obscurity beneath her tank. Her nostrils flare and then bam — golden eyes on Taylor that make him shrink back and pretend he didn’t see a thing. There’s a power in her gaze. A force to push him away — to make him submit. Is she the Alpha that Nik mentioned…?

Nik realizes he’s getting nowhere with the brothers and, much on the same wavelength of thought, ducks and swerves his head to try and catch the woman’s attention.

“Octavia, now, let’s not start anything. You know Kristof’s expecting me.”

Octavia steps forward and the bodies part around her. Like they’re aware of her every movement and breath. Taylor’s never _‘studied’ _animal behavior outside of brief affairs with the animal channel when there’s nothing else on but this is what he imagines pack mentality is like.

It’s beautiful — or it would be if it weren’t so nerve-wracking.

When she speaks Octavia’s voice is rich and husky — more eloquent than her companions and with the trademark Cajun swing oft imitated but never well. No — she’s the real deal.

“Oh I’m well aware, _cher,_ just as I’m sure you’re aware of how hard I tried to dissuade him from meetin’ with you.” There’s no flirtatious edge — only hard, clipped words. Like a commander barking orders. It definitely makes the men around her back up — back _down._

Nik hazards another step forward; backs off down to Taylor’s level at the twitch of Octavia’s upper lip — the flash of teeth.

The hunter’s persona is gone now. He knows it won’t get him any open doors. “I wouldn’t come if it weren’t important.”

“You shouldn’t’a come at all. Not after what you done.”

“We both know I was just doing my job.”

Something about it makes the tallest man snap. His bottle breaks in his hand and he’d lunge forward if another doesn’t hold him back.

“That’s ‘cuz ya in the business-a’ _murder,_ fuckin’ dick!”

But it’s definitely not just Taylor who stands surprised when Octavia rounds on her own with a hand curled in the back of his mousy hair — just shy of his neck.

“Watch ya’self, _pup._ Don’t let an outsider get you all riled up._ Control. it._”

And he’s got a pretty good idea of what _‘it’_ is based on the way the man’s bared teeth look a little _too _sharp. Watches as he shoots rapid looks between Ryder—unmoving—and Octavia—unyielding—until he ducks his head. It must be the right thing to do because she lets go and soon the two usher their brother inside.

The tension isn’t gone but it does ease up. Gives Nik the chance to regain his two steps like he’s pressing in on territory but knows not to go _too far._ Octavia mutters something under her breath before looking back their way.

“I asked Kristof to meet me outside of the Pack turf to avoid this sorta mess.” 

She huffs at him. “Yeah, well, it was a dumb thing to ask. ‘Specially during _Mardi Gras._”

“Well… yeah. I forgot about that.”

“Whatever it is must be important then.” Her chin jerks up. “Something to do with whatever _that _is?”

Ryder looks back — exchanges a look of confusion with Taylor that definitely isn’t an act.

“Whate — that’s a kid, Octavia. A mortal kid.”

At least it makes her laugh; though probably for the wrong reasons. “Ha, and I’m a terrier. Half the trouble ain’t your ugly mug ‘round these parts but the _stench _of whatever you’ve brought ‘long with ya.”

He’d probably be a little more offended if he hadn’t seen how they treated Ryder on principle. Whatever history was between him and the wolves made for bad blood all around. Maybe it was just being transferred his way.

Maybe even after the two hours he’d spent in the dingy apartment shower trying to scrub off the feeling of moldy decay he still smelled like death.

Or maybe they were all assholes; Nik, Octavia, the werewolves too. That made for a much more reasonable explanation.

“You reek of trouble.”

Takes him a moment to shake off his thoughts and realize Octavia’s looking _right at him_ again. Same eyes, same ferocity. _Defending her pack._

But since he hadn’t said two words good or bad to her it was a little shitty on her part.

“Second puberty’ll do that to you.” He snaps back; hands on his hips, elbows sticking out. Taking up as much space as he could. Hadn’t the animal channel once said something about scaring off bears by making yourself look larger?

Not that it scares her off. But it does quirk up her lips a smidgen.

“Yeah,” her nose twitches, “that too.”

“A-_hem,_” Nik actually snaps to bring the attention back to him, “if we could get back to the matter at hand? I ain’t leavin’ without my meeting, Octavia.”

“I know, I know.”

She leaves her bottle on the porch railing. Doesn’t gesture for them to follow but opens the screen door to head inside regardless. “Just had to give them time to warn him, that’s all.”

“We spoke on the phone. He knows.”

“This is Kristof we’re talking about, _cher._ Don’t be surprised if he takes a swing for the heck of it.”

Ryder scratches his cheek — tries to cover up the somber anticipation of the thought as he and Taylor join her inside.

Most of the party is out by the trailers but there’s definitely an air of something afoot in the cabin’s wooden walls. That with old rugs lining the hallways and a small homemade bar in the corner gives the place an air of sophistication one wouldn’t expect from the outside.

If dozens of taxidermy heads mounted on plaques could be considered _sophisticated,_ anyway.

Some, Taylor recognizes; elk with towering antlers and what has to be some sort of mock up sabertooth — a tiger’s head with a walrus’ tusks or something. He turns to ask Ryder if it is indeed a fake but they’re already ten steps ahead. He jogs to catch up.

Avoids the pointed glares of the brothers at the small bar for the sake of peace.

They stop at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Beside them a door half-open lets light and the soft melody of a piano ease out.

“He’s up in his office.” Octavia stops halfway up the stairs and jerks her head in Taylor’s direction. “Keep the pup down here; whatever you’re up to having something reek in his nose ain’t gonna help your cause.”

He looks to Nik with wide eyes. “No way. I’m coming with you.”

“Remember what I said about baring your —”

“But what if it —” he stops himself; remembers they aren’t in the same sort of friendly company the _Shift_ provides, “— you know what I mean, Ryder.”

He does. From the look in his weathered eyes he really does. Actually makes him throw a look back to Octavia — but the she-wolf isn’t budging. Isn’t just on the stairs as a guide now but a barrier.

Ryder sighs and his voice sounds one word short of pleading. “Can he at least stay inside? He’s new to all this. Like — _born _new.”

Taylor plays it up; puts on his best and most pathetic face for the woman. Doesn’t know if he should be glad or a little insulted that it actually works.

She jerks her head to where the piano can be heard. “Fine; he can wait in the Trophy Room.” And fixates Taylor with a hard look when she says, “Whatever you break, pup, you best be ready to replace with somethin’ of your own.”

It’s enough… hopefully.

“Stay out of trouble.” Ryder’s warning sounds more like a fond farewell. _Some bodyguard,_ he wants to shout back —but knows it’s something neither of them can control.

He waits until the last edge of leather coat vanishes up the steps and out of sight. Knocks on the side door awkwardly — seems like the polite thing to do — before nudging the door open with his boot.

Oh it’s a Trophy Room all right. With more mounted heads than he ever hoped to see in his life scattered around the wall with other trinkets from what must be Kristof’s victories. A tusk hung here, what looks like the tail of a human-sized scorpion there. A row of frames hanging over a small stone fireplace.

And the piano in the corner facing the drawn plaid window curtains. The player with his back turned, hunched over; fingers dancing along each key with the grace that only comes with hard work and dedication.

He finds an ottoman made from a tree stump and takes a seat in silence.

There are worse places to hang out.

He hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> †risorous muscle: cheek muscle that draws back the mouth at an angle; seen here  
††muscovite mica: here
> 
> * * *
> 
> Enter the wolf den... Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	5. Every Elite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Pack refuses to help them Taylor and Ryder turn to the lone wolf Cal as a last resort. He’s happy to provide for a simple favor: break into New Orleans’ most exclusive supernatural club to save his little brother from a fate worse than death. Easy, right? If only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** alcohol, gambling, mentions of cage fights

Taylor’s craft is made to be seen. He’s never been one of those types of actors who needs to imagine the entire audience empty to perform at his best. In fact, the larger the crowd the more he feels like they’re a mass of bodies and heartbeats than individuals he’s there to perform for.  


The audience swells and becomes one single, solid beating heart — one mind and one capacity for emotion that he’s there to bring out. That’s his talent.

But he has a great respect for those who prefer the silence and solitude to hone their skills. They aren’t performing for anyone but themselves — improving despite the temptation to stay stagnant for their own sakes.

The piano player is one such artist. He’s no performer — no showman. Taylor’s pretty sure the man doesn’t even know he has a sole audience. Yet he keeps playing; rapid keystrokes never faltering to break the miasma of humidity that hangs over them. 

He cuts into the world with his playing and knows the spaces left aren’t empty, but rather filled with melody.

Either the song — not one he recognizes — ends or the man simply decides to stop playing. Either way the tune ends abruptly; a life cut short. And he’s so taken by how it resonates in his chest that he does the only logical thing and applauds.

The piano player swings a denim-clad leg over the stool; stares at Taylor like a startled animal.

He probably shouldn’t have announced himself so loudly.

“S-Sorry if I scared you.”

The look he’s given — the threat assessed and deemed non-threatening — is definitely unimpressed.

“Yeah that’s… definitely not what happened.” Like the rest of the wolves the man inhales deeply through his nostrils. Unlike the rest of them he manages a bit of tact and doesn’t noticeably recoil. “Jesus, you smell like…”

“A hot mess, yeah I’ve been told.”

That gets a laugh and the man’s full attention — long legs swinging around away from the piano with elbows resting on jeans that have definitely seen better days. He’s the polar opposite of everything in the trophy room; nothing fancy about him except for his obvious skill with the piano. 

It’s kind of nice for someone else to stick out like a sore thumb for a change.

“Nah, that ain’t it — well not all the way.” He sniffs again with his face tilted up into the air and Taylor really _really _tries not to laugh. Doesn’t know if he’ll somehow offend the entire Pack or something if he does. Ryder really should have given him the low-down…

“You smell like…” 

Taylor waits for an answer but none comes. Sees the way the working man’s tan seems to drain from his face and leave behind something strange; almost haunted in his eyes. 

Suddenly he really wishes he’d just gone with Ryder.

“Never mind.” Taylor tries to back track — moves to get up and hang out by the bottom of the stairs instead. But there’s a hand that stops just short of grabbing him that makes them _both _tense up. 

Now _he _looks like the frightened animal.

“I offended you.” It’s not a question.

“What’s there to be offended about?”

The piano player brushes aside one of his mousy brown curls; looks Taylor in the eyes with such a startling honesty that he’s pretty sure his heart stops beating for a second.

“I don’t know,” is the measured reply, “you tell me.”

Well _that _isn’t happening, so… “Tell me what you were gonna say.”

The wolf leans back — gives them both some space. Shrugs and seems almost sheepish instead. 

“A-ha… well I was gonna say you smell like my little brother. Then I realized how weird that sounded since, y’know, I’m pretty sure we’ve never met before. One of those _‘quit while you’re ahead’_ things.” 

He rubs the back of his head. Shoulders hunched and a measly half-smile that’s disarmingly charming. Sure Taylor’s still _confused _(even more so now) but it’s better than the assumed alternative.

But he does turn away from the door at the very least.

“Gonna tell me exactly how that works?”

“What d’you mean?”

“How I, uh, _smell _like your little brother?”

“Well puberty ain’t exactly a science to the nose.”

_Puberty._ God, he actually laughs. Feels even more ashamed about the obvious sweat stains on his underarms but given where they are it’s not the worst of the multiple stenches in the air. 

The man continues on a borderline ramble; “And I’m gonna go ahead and assume most people wouldn’t want to be compared to a pre-pubescent teenager, you know? So then I _really_ didn’t wanna say anything.”

It’s the most genuine interaction he’s had since all of this began — and he didn’t know how much he needed it until now. Ivy, Garrus, Krom; they were all so so great but they loved _talking _about it all; loved delving into the things weird and strange that Taylor was still trying to wrap his head around.

But _sniffing _put aside there’s nothing more casual than not knowing what to say in front of a cute guy. Talk about your ordinary problems.

“Cal — by the way — Cal Lowell.” 

Taylor takes Cal’s offered hand in that usual way — pressing just a little too hard to affirm his masculinity that he’s so often okay with shrugging away from the surface. It’s how men — and Southern men especially — interact. He’s kind of an expert on the matter. 

But Cal’s grip is stronger than other men. Something Taylor just accepts along with the almost sizzling heat of his body radiating from just the palm. Must be a werewolf thing. 

“Taylor Hunter.”

“Who brought you along for the party, Taylor?” 

_Man it’s nice to hear his name instead of ‘_kid.’ “Oh, actually —”

His reply is drowned out by the sudden _slam _of a door above them; followed by thundering footsteps and shouts that were quickly becoming not-so-muffled.

_“I knew you were stupid, Ryder, but if you think I’m just gonna push all you done aside and let you come onto my territory demandin’ favors you’ve got less brain in ya than I thought!”_

_“Christ, Kristof, tuck your damn tail and listen to me, will ya?!”_

Cal squeezes a little too hard — makes Taylor yank his hand away. But when he goes to ask the guy what the hell it looks like he’s staring straight _through _him. 

“Shit,” hisses Cal under his breath; and swerves around Taylor rather than pushing him aside to join the argument quickly approaching them.

The man who must be Kristof is _hairy._ That’s all Taylor can really think of him at first glance. He’s tall but not Krom-level of tall (his new measurement standard) and wide-set in the shoulders with muscle and scars both old and new criss-crossing one another down his exposed arms. 

_Add a little white to his bushy beard and he could be a budget-mall Santa,_ Taylor thinks. 

Then he catches Ryder leaping down the steps two at a time to catch up.

“If you weren’t gonna hear me out then why agree to meet with me in the first place?” snaps the Nighthunter; teeth grit and knuckles white on the banister. 

He’s got height on Kristof, being a few steps higher and all, but he might as well be facing down a charging bull with the way the Pack Alpha rounds on him in red-faced fury.

“Figured it was about time you apologized for what you did to poor Jimbo,” and the fact he isn’t shouting definitely dials the tension up to eleven, “but what’s a lit’le more blood on yer hands?”

Taylor doesn’t have to ask who ‘poor Jimbo’ was. Can get enough from the context. And while he doesn’t want to get involved in something that was before he came along he’s be remiss if he didn’t feel uneasy at the thought of _his bodyguard_ as a killer.

But didn’t that mean he’d kill to keep Taylor safe?

Ryder recoils enough for Kristof to gain the advantage; come up a step so they’re eye-to-eye. 

“Don’t you gimme that fake remorse. Not in my home. Ain’t a word in Jimbo’s mem’ry — ‘stead you waltz up in here demandin’ favors?! When you ain’t even got the_ balls —!_”

“Whoa whoa _— hey!_”

Cal realizes it’s a bad move just a moment too late. Octavia settles her grip on the second floor railing and looks down with a jaw set and proverbial hackles raised. But that’s nothing compared to how Kristof looks at him — goes from red to purple in the face at the mere _sight _of Cal.

“You stay outta this, boy.”

“Kristof — I just think —”

His reaction _has _to be purely werewolf. Something real wolves can’t imitate but humans could never understand. Keeps Taylor enraptured as he starts to realize he’s been thinking about them all wrong; that there is no place where the man ends and the wolf begins — but rather that they’re one in the same.

Kristof’s muscles ripple under thick skin. Something shifts on the stale air like a breeze and in less time than it takes a heart to beat Cal’s backing down with his head to the floor. 

_Baring the back of his neck._

He’s given Kristof an inch and the Alpha takes a mile. Advances a step just to make sure Cal backs off in a strange and unspoken dance.

“I’d say given your predicament, Lowell, challengin’ your Alpha is the last thing you wanna be doin’.”

Cal doesn’t have to _say _anything to agree. Even when he raises his head he won’t — _or can’t_ — meet Kristof’s eyes.

Before he does something (else) stupid, Taylor grabs the cuff of Cal’s flannel and pulls him back.

“Best you and your pup leave now, Ryder,” Octavia calls from above, “before you overstay your welcome.”

And Nik, literally a dumbass, looks like he’s about to argue. “Ryder,” Taylor calls — practically pleads, “let’s just go. We’ll find what we need somewhere else.” _That doesn’t even matter,_ he wants to say, _but we’re not safe here anymore. _

It takes him a second to move around the wall of tension named Kristof; looks like he’s about to call the Alpha out on the power move until Taylor manages to grab hold of him, too, and makes it easy on them both.

Kristof stands silent save his breathing — husky, heavy breaths that fill his lungs and puff out his chest. 

“Show ‘em out, Lowell.” Octavia calls when the three of them are already halfway to the front of the cabin. “Then go for a run — clear ya head.”

Not like they’ve already forgotten the way out but it is what it is; a way to diffuse the situation. Judging by the looks of things it’s a role Octavia plays quite often.

Cal’s brought them all the way to the pergola at the property entrance before he finally seems to calm down enough to speak. Looks at Taylor with an apologetic gaze.

“Thanks for that — gettin’ me outta there.”

“Wasn’t any trouble,” though he does throw a look back to Ryder; already busy on his phone and taking out his frustration with every punch to the keys, “thanks for trying to help. I figured out he had history with, uh, the pack, but…”

Cal nods. “Guess you’ve just met him, then?”

“How’d you know?”

“Ryder’s a bit infamous around New Orleans.”

“For being a Nighthunter?”

“For being a dick about being a Nighthunter.”

Like he’s psychic, Ryder barks for Taylor not a moment later; “Come on, kid! We gotta get back to the _Shift._ It’s gonna be a steep price to pay but Ivy thinks she can get what we need.”

“Coming!” He calls — offers Cal what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah, might go for that run…”

But there’s a distracted distance in his reply. He watches Cal’s focus flicker between him and Ryder behind. “_‘Get what you need,’_ what’s that mean? You needed somethin’ from Kristof?”

“Oh — yeah. We’re putting together a protection spell I guess.”

“Then you came here for Hunter’s Sage.”

It’s enough to catch Ryder’s ear and haul him over to their conversation. Not that he looks at Cal with any less suspicion but it seems to be a mutual thing.

“What d’you know about Hunter’s Sage?”

“I know it’s a standard ingredient for protection magic,” answers the werewolf, “and I also know it’s one of the few things the Pack keeps locked up tight. Whoever your friend is sayin’ they’ve got access to some — it can’t be local. And we both know if that stuff ain’t fresh your spell’ll be about as protective as a house pet.”

Ryder’s teeth grind audibly. “I’ve seen my share of scary pets.”

“But do you really wanna take that chance?”

Judging by the way he looks at Taylor; Cal wants to help. Might even know a way to do so — but if it means going against his Alpha…

“I don’t want to risk getting you in more trouble,” Taylor says, “especially after what happened back there.”

“Ain’t a risk if there’s a big enough reward.” 

And much to Taylor’s surprise — and Ryder’s lack thereof — Cal gives a curt nod. “If I wasn’t in the situation I’m in… I’d offer it to you for the sake of keeping the peace. The Lowell’s have always been in good with the Alpha — he’d huff and puff for a few weeks but eventually forget about it. 

“But that ain’t the case at the moment. So if you’re desperate enough for the Sage I’m more than willing to provide it as a payment.”

The hunter and the wolf mirror one another; puff out their chests and cross their arms tight. The fragility of their combined masculinity is so thick Taylor’s at risk of choking on it.

“All right — I’ll bite,” Ryder quirks a brow, “_‘payment’_ for what?”

Even though the Nighthunter would be the one doing said job it’s Taylor that Cal turns to. The nearest torch flame reflects like a burning passion in his eyes.

“Payment for rescuing my little brother before Kristof has him killed.”

* * *

The door is already open on Cal’s side and that’s the one closest to the curb; so it’s logical for Taylor to follow the tall werewolf out of the cab instead of joining Nik in the middle of the street.

So why does it look like for a brief second Ryder’s _irritated _that he didn’t?

But the look fades away; goes through Ryder’s barely-expressive version of the five stages of grief as he sees where Cal’s had the cab take them.

“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Cal isn’t kidding anyone. “Now you see what I mean.”

From Taylor’s vague mental memory of those first tours he took of the new city he called home they have to be somewhere in the Upper Garden District. Usually the houses are closer together — though no less grand — but the place they’ve been dropped off in front of has its own lot cleared. As if to heighten its importance.

Or its value.

A roundabout of freshly-paved drive circles a fountain made of black iron. Lights reflect on the water and change from the soft yellow of liquid sunlight to deep emerald green and a blue he’s only seen in pictures of the ocean on a cloudless day.

The manor is no less splendid, either. Filled with the old-world charm of New Orleans; her vines of ivy climbing and spreading fingers of foliage across the vast wings and around windows both large and small. But there’s nothing run-down about it. This place is well-kept; well-loved, well-visited.

“All right — run this whole thing by me again now that I know what shit we’re steppin’ in.” Ryder demands without taking his eyes off of the estate.

Cal, on the other hand, can’t bear to look at it.

“Donny’s a good kid. Came into his wolf on time just like everyone else. He’s a whiz at math, too. Maybe that’s why he thought he could gamble — like there aren’t any card-counting hexes on any place of Smoke’s.

“He was just tryin’ to help. If I hadn’t lost my job at the building site…”

When he trails off Taylor reaches out and rests what he hopes is a reassuring hand on a broad shoulder. Cal leans into it — throws back a small but no-less grateful smile. It’s enough for him to continue.

“Whatever happened, he got in deep. One night he’s digging around the trailer for every spare nickel and dime and the next day he’s not waiting for me outside school like he’s supposed to. I went to Kristof about it and — y’know, he’s a good Alpha temper aside; takes care of his Pack — and he put some feelers out. Only they led him to…”

“They led him to Persephone.” answers Ryder, who gives a jerk of his head to the glamorous mansion.

Taylor looks between them. “Anyone gonna explain what _Persephone _is?”

The gesture Ryder gives at the building isn’t subtle. Nor is the look Taylor gives him because _no, really? _

“It’s a high-end club for high-end supernatural folks.” Cal tries only to end up getting corrected anyway.

“It’s _the _club, more like. You can only get in with a signet membership and people have killed for less in this town. It’s no place we wanna go sticking our noses.”

Taylor frowns. “But Donny…”

“Whatever debts he racked up ain’t somethin’ that can go away just as easy. The people who own this place aren’t exactly known for their forgiving nature.”

Beside Taylor, Cal’s knuckles crack one by one as he balls his hands into fists. Ryder shrugs. “I’m just sayin’. It’s a lost cause.”

“Then so will gettin’ your hands on any Hunter’s Sage.” Cal immediately regrets his words when he sees the way Taylor’s face falls; tries to backtrack. “I don’t — I want to help — really I do. You seem like a good guy, Taylor, and if I can help…”

But Taylor isn’t _mad _at Cal. “I get it. Your family comes first.”

“Exactly.”

“So why’s Kristof gonna maul him?” Ryder asks.

“For mixing the Pack up with the Smoke? He’d put him down just to make an example out of him for anyone else who might try something similar. It’ll be hard to do but being the Alpha isn’t an easy job. Even if he doesn’t kill him outright, the thought of Donny being banished…

“He’s the only family I have.” He’s trying not to seem vulnerable as best he can but his eyes betray him. 

Never has there been a more apt time to think the expression _looking like a kicked puppy._

Sage or no Sage, Taylor wants to help. Doesn’t know a thing about what he’s getting himself into but when has he ever made consciously smart choices? Ryder, however, seems to be heavily weighing on the pros and cons. 

Well, fuck that.

“So how do we get in?”

Nik scoffs in disbelief. “Was I talking to _myself _when I said —”

“I’m sorry,” he rounds on his bodyguard with hands on hips and spite in his soul, “did I suggest _walking in the front door?_ No. But there’s gotta be another way in. There always is in the movies.”

“This ain’t a movie, Taylor.”

“Well maybe we should start pretending it is.”

At least Cal looks like he’s starting to get on board with the plan. “What did you have in mind?”

It’s like one of the fountain’s color-changing lights sparks atop his head. 

* * *

As someone who has never seen a goblin before, Taylor would like to point out what he’s keeping his cool _very _well. Like, well enough to earn whatever crazy non-alcoholic mixology madness Garrus is no doubt cooking up in his and Ryder’s absence. 

Because freaking out wouldn’t help them, now would it? And they could really use all the help they can get.

“I didn’t send out no order for some Bayou _filth,_” the goblin woman continues on her rampage of scorn, “you must have the wrong address! As if I would serve _my guests_ anything that grew in a local swamp.”

Taylor adjusts the small stack of crates he’s carrying — feels his fingers go numb and quickly moves them back to their aching spot. Better in pain than no feeling at all. 

He’s definitely more than a little jealous at how easy Ryder makes his haul look. 

“I’ll try not to take offense, ma’am, and for both our sakes I won’t go mentionin’ to my Alpha your little snipe and question of the quality of our goods. But how about you cut a guy some slack? I’m just the delivery.”

Cal’s either done this before or is a natural; lets his accent draw out his words while he oh-so-casually leans in the doorway of Persephone’s delivery entrance. He’s two heads taller than the goblin head chef but that doesn’t seem to bother her in the slightest.

She curls back a green lip in a snarl; reveals a row of large yellow teeth like blunted knives. 

“Oh, you’re wantin’ _me _to cut _you _slack? When you’re the mangy hound keeping me from finishing a _very _specific order for a _very _specific client?”

“Well I can’t go about the rest of my drop-offs until this one is done!”

“And how is that my problem?!”

“I’m making it your problem!” There’s definitely no pretending the ire in Cal’s voice is fake. He pulls a random piece of folded paper out of his back pocket and starts waving it around without actually unfurling it — conveniently right out of the chef’s gnarled green grasp.

“I got a dozen more orders to fill tonight and no room on my truck —” —Cal jerks his thumb behind them but stays right in the goblin’s way; keeps her from looking for what definitely isn’t there— “— for this crap! So let me and my guys drop it off and we’re done!”

“I told you I won’t serve —”

“Christ, woman! You don’t gotta serve it; hell, burn the shit for all I care! I don’t get paid unless I got an empty truck at the end of my route. And you sure as hell ain’t gettin’ paid while arguin’ with me.”

She opens her mouth to argue but the sound of breaking glass and porcelain is the only thing that comes out. Makes her whirl around with a high-pitched and gravelly shriek as she takes in whatever mess as been made.

“You _rotten-toothed fools,_” she howls, _“not the Ming china!”_

Thank god for the broken Ming china because any longer arguing and they might have drawn unwanted attention. Well, more unwanted attention. 

It’s enough of a tragedy to get the head chef to rush inside without bothering to scold them, send them off, or even shut the door properly. Easily propped open with Cal’s boot. 

He holds a hand back to keep them from rushing in — Taylor’s about to very loudly protest when the noise inside starts growing into a full-blown cacophony. 

_“Now!”_ He shoulders open the door with just enough space for Nik and Taylor to rush inside, then keeps it from slamming shut as he comes in last.

Only now Taylor’s plan is done and he’s at a loss for how to go forward. Until Cal practically shoves him to follow Ryder along a side hallway out of the kitchen staff — and head chef’s — sights.

Lucky for them that must have been some expensive china because staff of all types, sizes, and goblin-shades rush by them without so much as a ‘hello.’ They test every door in the hallway until they find one unlocked and dump their cargo haul without ceremony.

“So we’re in,” Cal huffs, no doubt heart beating with the same thrill of almost-not-quite-caught that Taylor’s is, “now what?”

“Now we find your brother and get the hell out.” 

When he finally catches his breath the werewolf takes a deep breath in — nostrils flaring and eyelids fluttering closed. His nose crinkles slightly, catches the scent of something foul. 

“What, what is it?” asks Taylor with worry.

Cal shakes his head. “Someone burned a catfish back there.”

“Focus, Fido.”

If he wants to bite Nik’s head off for the comment he holds it in well. So Taylor smacks a leather-clad arm for him. 

They wait — and wait — and wait… but Cal’s shoulders sag in frustration and disappointment. “It’s no use. The kitchen’s messing with my nose. I thought I had him, but…”

“So we just go further in, right?” Taylor grabs for the door but a broad palm stops him in his tracks. Ryder glowers down at him. 

“No. We wait until he can catch the scent from back here.”

“What? That’s stupid!”

“Yeah, about as stupid as going out into the ranks of Persephone during _Mardi Gras._ No signets, no threads; we’ll stick out like sore thumbs.”

“Some of us more than others…” mutters Cal under his breath; not quite soft enough for Nik _not _to hear.

“We’re not turning back.” And just in case the hunter might be in doubt Taylor yanks the door open; sends him staggering. “Or I’m not, at the very least. So are you gonna come be my body guard or what?”

Not that he gives Nik the chance to answer. Turns on his heel and marches straight out in all his raggedy un-refined glory with Cal the flannel-clad werewolf at his heels. 

“I can’t believe _this _is the job that’s gonna kill me.” Mutters the Nighthunter under his breath — just before he jogs to catch up.

* * *

So far everything he’s come into contact with in this strange new world hasn’t been on the best side of friendly. Why should Persephone be any different?

And for the first time Taylor isn’t let down in the slightest. Not when they manage to slip their way out of the back rooms and onto what must be the main show floor.

The ceiling is all four stories high with a large glowing chandelier shining iridescent gemstone reflections down on every inch of the place. Two winding staircases branch off in different directions with velvet-encased landings on every floor. 

All around them bodies lean on railings and various balconies. The floor is an addict’s paradise; no matter the vice. A large circular bar _rotates _in the middle of the sunken floor while around them dice roll, chips are collected, and cards are thrown down to mixed reactions of cheers and disappointed groans. 

But it’s not even the physics-breaking space that’s the most interesting part. It’s the _people._ Well — if some of them _are _people, that is. 

The collective net worth of the civilized world (and then some) has to be gathered on the diamond-studded (actual. fucking. diamonds) carpeting. They titter along, absorbed in their drinks and wealth and company just like Taylor would expect of an entirely mortal clientele. 

Some of them _look _mortal, too — though he has to remind himself that might not hold true. A woman with bright blue scales for skin brushes past with a giggled _“pardonnez-moi!”_ as she heads to catch a waitress and her tray of mini-somethings. 

Some have _tails,_ others _talons,_ and just when he thinks he’s seen it all a bellowing call comes from the top floor and he looks up to see a snow-white swan dive off of the landing and turn into an obsidian crow mid-flight without so much as a fallen feather.

There’s a sudden warmth a this back and Taylor jumps, ready to shove off the offender, only to find Ryder there; leading him through the crowd to a shadowed corner of booths with curtains strung around them. 

“You feeling okay?” He asks under his breath.

Taylor nods. “Yeah, why?”

He inches in the round booth until Ryder can comfortably sit beside him — finds himself looking around for any sign of Cal until he spots the wolf’s messy curls shadowing a group of fanged flappers on their way to the floor bar.

The most surprising sight — even with all the magic and delight — is turning to see Nik with concern creased in his forehead. The wrinkles overlapping on his scar awkwardly.

“Ryder, what’s wrong?”

“All this ain’t givin’ you a head-splitting ache?”

It’s such an out-there question — actually succeeds to pull Taylor’s attention away from each new bewildering sight to the very-average and very-mortal face of the man before him.

The bravado’s gone from Nik’s voice; replaced instead with… with some sort of sincerity he’s not used to. Not from him, anyway. Even back at the _Graveyard Shift_ he still found a way to make light of Taylor’s situation and the hard, dark truths he had to learn.

If he didn’t know better, Taylor would dare say the man in front of him isn’t Nik Ryder. But because he hesitates in answering, because he instead chooses to take in the sight before him rather than brush it aside, that openness closes up real quick. 

Which version was the real Nik Ryder? Now he wants to know. 

“No,” and he places a hand over Ryder’s arm on the tabletop to keep him from letting that be all that’s said, “it’s like you said back at Garrus’, you know? I stopped resisting it and now… I don’t see anything but the truth. Like there isn’t a glamour at all.”

It makes Nik give a soft — almost _fond _— chuckle. 

“‘Course there ain’t. Not in here at least. I may hate the lot of ‘em for their vulgar hoards of cash but even I’ll admit they deserve a place not to have to hide.”

“I didn’t think of it that way.” And when he looks back out to the revelry it’s with a different eye. 

After all he knows exactly how hard it is to go through life wearing a mask that can’t even come close to capturing the person underneath it.

“Doesn’t stop the majority of ‘em from being assholes, though.”

“When did Ryder start referring to himself in the third person?”

Cal slides in on Taylor’s opposite side, cocks a half-smirk at Ryder who only manages a grumbled and incoherent (probably for everyone’s benefit) response.

“Did you catch Donny’s scent by the bar?”

The wolf shakes his head no. Pinches the bridge of his nose with eyes squeezed shut. “For a second it was there — like he was right beside me — but just like that it was lost in the herbs they got in the drinks.”

“At least we know that means he’s here.”

“Or was, at least.”

Cal looks up when Taylor nudges his side. “Come on, don’t think like that now. We’re on the right path and, hey, knock on wood but no one’s kicking us out just yet.”

“They should with duds like _those._ Or didn’t you see the dress code on your way in?”

Nik tenses up beside him; mutters _“shit”_ under his breath but doesn’t have to look around like his companions for the owner of the lilting laugh.

She emerges from around the drawn-back velvet curtain with dark blue gems for skin. No — it takes Taylor a second to realize the dress she wears just clings to her in all the right places before cascading down her legs like a waterfall. 

She brushes her hair aside, lets it reveal her face as if parted from a violet veil. There’s nothing inherently inhuman about the woman at first glance — but if anyone could be the definition of _deceiving looks_ its her.

From the looks of things she’s been taking them in with the same level of scrutiny. All but Ryder, whom she doesn’t even spare a passing glance. He leans back in the booth — suddenly far more at ease — and throws an arm around the back.

Her eyes linger on the worn state of Cal’s flannel collar and the wrinkles in Taylor’s tee. “Though I can’t tell if it’s just sad or actually a little genius on your part. One sore thumb is a nuisance but _three,_ well… that’s a statement.”

Ryder’s brow twitches. “What can I say? I live to disappoint.”

“If only you were as good at your job as you were at getting dirt on everything you own.”

“Now that’s funny — since I seem to recall you singin’ my praises when you were butterin’ me up on the Raines job.”

“Compliments get pretty girls like me everything and everywhere, Nik. Or have you forgotten that you _did _come help me?”

“Problem with you Kathy,” Ryder starts up; looks like he’s ready to tell their new friend all the problems he has with her there and then, “is you always say you’ll split the fare after the job’s done but you’re too busy chasin’ your next lead to actually do it.”

‘Kathy’ rolls her eyes and turns to leave — no, not leave — to flag down a server carrying a full tray of champagne flutes filled with fuzzy pink liquid. “You can just leave that here, thanks.” She croons and waves the girl off like it never happened. 

“I’ll admit I got… _caught up_ in a few things once we split. But I give you _my word_ the money will be in your account by tomorrow.”

The look Nik gives her is dangerously shy of _‘why wait, let’s go now’_ but he doesn’t. Taylor tries to be an optimist and pretends it’s for Cal’s sake — for his little brother’s sake. 

“You’re lucky I’m already on a job,” growls the hunter instead, “or I’d be pushin’ it.”

“And you’d end up waiting regardless. You’re not the only one working here.”

“I don’t even wanna ask what job you’re on in that getup.”

“It’s called _blending in._”

The likelihood of their bickering lasting until the end of time, if left to their own devices, is a little too high. They have things to do — a little brother to find. And Cal’s getting antsy in his seat.

“Ryder,” Taylor tries — and fails — to be subtle; what with the wide eyes and the way he keeps jerking his head towards the depths of the lobby, “we gotta. get. going.”

Nik actually waves him off. “Yeah yeah, just a minute.” Then to Kathy; “I can’t figure why it’s takin’ you so long when you’re the one who ended up with the better end of the bargain.”

She scoffs — stops grabbing for one of the drinks on the tray and fixes him with a glare that’s gonna start Trouble with a capital ‘T.’ 

“And what’s _that _supposed to mean?”

Ryder puffs out his chest, huffs through his nostrils. “Just don’t think you gettin’ Raines to do you a favor measures up when I did most of the work.”

_“That’s debatable, from what Kathy’s told me.”_

The voice from behind them wouldn’t be nearly as startling if it didn’t come from the woman’s open mouth in a deep baritone.

Their new guest is a tall man in sleek black finery. The silk of his shirt ripples like liquid and when he walks around them to Katherine’s side there’s the tinkle of metal on the tile floor; the silver tips of his shoes make him decorated — quite literally — head to toe.

He crooks his elbow and Katherine slides herself onto his arm like she’s just another piece to his fancy ensemble. _“Took you long enough…”_ She mutters aside.

Instead of apologizing, though, the stranger focuses on the ragtag trio in the booth. “Of course we all know there’s three sides to every argument: his, hers,” he looks away from the bristling Nighthunters to stare at Taylor; to penetrate his soul with bright red eyes, “and the truth.”

_Definitely not mortal._

Everything about the way Ryder addresses the man screams recognition. Important, but not important enough to warrant an introduction.

“Cadence,” he almost sneers the name, “didn’t figure _Persephone _to be your kind of scene.” _I thought you were better than that;_ that’s what hangs unsaid in the air packed to the brim with tension.

Taylor’s eyes travel down to the taller man’s hand where, indeed, the same kind of heavy golden ring rests on his finger. Cadence notices and slyly tucks his hand into his trouser pockets; as if he’s embarrassed by it. When they lock eyes again the red is gone; replaced by dark honey.

But if Nik’s remark is a trap, he doesn’t fall into it. Instead does the opposite of his companion and regards Taylor and Cal like they’re actually a part of the conversation.

“I’ll assume you didn’t come in through the front door; kudos to whatever you did that worked.”

“It was surprisingly easy.” Taylor replies. 

“And dangerous — but some things are worth the danger.” The man looks down his nose — at his height it’s impossible to do anything else — and squeezes Kathy’s arm. “We should get going. We need to catch Isadora before the show starts.”

She nods curtly; all business now. Throws a look back to her—friend? rival?—Ryder. 

“Well it’s been fun, but —”

“_‘Isadora’_ as in Izzy-Isadora? Carlo’s daughter?”

Kathy’s not the only one taken by surprise at Cal’s interruption but she does seem to notice him for the first time. 

“Maybe.”

“Ain’t no other Isadora we’d know by name.” Nik cuts in.

“What’s it to you?”

“Her dad just died — what’s she doin’ here?” 

Cal raises a good point. Leaves the collective group in an awkward silence. The gears turning in Kathy’s head are near visible — like the steam coming out of her ears. 

“She’s here to pay off her father’s debt to the Smoke.” Cadence finally answers. Judging by the way Kathy looks at him, too, he’s not lying. “What?” He asks her in defense of her silent accusation. “What did I say?”

Only Nik acts like he’s just been shot. “Wait — _Smoke’s here tonight?_”

“No — Katherine stop — but her collector is. He’s leading the matches in the underground.”

“What _matches?_”

“The cage fights.” 

Cal makes a desperate, choking noise beside him and Taylor immediately tries to see what he can do — he doesn’t have to know much about this new world to understand what they’re talking about. _‘Cage fights’ _is a pretty universal term with only so many interpretations.

“That’s where they have Donny.”

Taylor doesn’t have to question him. Not with how sure, how _terrified _he sounds. And it makes sense — mobsters are mobsters.

“Well… we’ll just be going now…” Katherine starts tugging her partner away — actually has to _tug _since he seems suddenly taken by Cal’s reaction. “Cade — come on.”

Nik leans over Taylor — _is personal space a concept to anyone around here?_ — to look Cal dead in the eyes.

“You sure?”

“Has to be.” Cal chokes out. 

“Would you like to join us?”

Katherine stops tugging only to pick her jaw up off the ground. Even Taylor’s surprised by the man’s abrupt invitation. Checks his face again for any sign of cruel teasing but there’s nothing in those golden eyes. 

Nothing but curiosity. Not even sincerity. He wants to see what will happen. 

“Bad idea, Cadence.” Katherine warns.

“Nope!” Taylor’s shoved by Ryder — accidentally shoves the still sheet-white Cal as a result — out of the booth in haste. “Can’t take it back now.”

The Nighthunter adjusts his shirt and coat sleeves like he’s wearing something bought on the same rack as every other bespoke suit and outfit there. When he speaks he’s looking straight at Katherine — now fuming — and has to be getting his kicks judging by the look on her face.

“We’d love to.”

All it takes is a gesture for their new guides to turn and start walking. Too far ahead and too fast for Taylor to catch any of the whispers Katherine hisses under her breath. But he’s more focused on Cal.

“We’re gonna find him — don’t worry.”

Cal swallows audibly. 

“_Cage fights,_ Taylor. They’ve got him in _cage fights._”

“And we’re gonna get him out before anything happens.”

Nik passes them; offers him grim two cents.

“If it ain’t happened already.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling a little excited about what's to come so here's a double update this week; today and tomorrow. Here’s where things start to take a turn… Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	6. There Are No Saints in New Orleans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come one, come all to the exclusive (even among the elite) event of the evening; a show not to be missed and sure to be the talk of the town for years to come. That's right, you'll only find it here at Persephone. Werewolf vs. Minotaur — to the death!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, betting, cage fights, choking, indentured fighting

An old-fashioned iron elevator lines Persephone’s back wall. Pull back the metal doors and step in to crystal-clear glass without a smudge or streak in sight. It would be a nice way to look down on the club’s main floor from above — to take in all the things limited by distance and closeness.  


But when Taylor sees the equally-clear panel that slides aside to allow the elevator to descend into a plunging endless black he rethinks how cool it is. Like, immediately.

They approach keeping close behind Cadence and Katherine. Ryder catches him looking over his shoulder and throws a subtle arm around his shoulder, whispers “keep your eyes ahead, you look like you’re up to something” in his ear, and remains at ease. 

_Some people just aren’t used to this sort of life, but thanks for the tip?_

An attendant presses the call button on the elevator’s rigging. Summons it from the topmost floor in the smoothest glide he’s ever seen. There’s no way that’s just human technology at work. 

Another attendant — similar, not identical — pulls open the grate doors where a third steps aside for them to enter. 

He guesses she’s fae by the way her skin shimmers like glitter beneath the surface and the point of her ears. Doesn’t say anything just in case he’s wrong and might somehow offend them, but the golden highlight under almost obsidian skin is breathtaking nonetheless. 

Though she becomes breathtaking in a whole new way when Taylor watches her eyes drift subtly to the signet rings on the hands of their guides. 

She holds up a long-fingered hand before Ryder, Taylor, and Cal can join them.

“Rings, sers.”

Ryder jumps at the opportunity — cocks a brow and starts what has to be a prepared monologue; “I knew you’d ask. Wouldn’t you know, what happened was —”

“Rings, sers.” She cuts him off, unfazed.

He looks behind her to Katherine; already inside the elevator and leaning against the back railing. But it’s Cadence who steps forward, places a feather-light touch on the attendant’s arm to draw her attention.

How the towering man manages to look so unassuming is a mystery. Even his smile seems genuine — but it can’t be. Especially not from the way Ryder spoke to him earlier. If Taylor hadn’t seen those red eyes for himself he’d have a hard time believing the man was anything potentially dangerous.

“I can vouch for them, miss.” He offers.

Just when it looks like he’s disarmed her with his smile, the fae shakes her head. Though when she replies she’s kinder in tone; recognizes his status as assumed by the ring. 

“It is my job, ser.”

“I don’t remember security being this tight during the Lunar Eclipse.”

“Increased measures due to recent events, ser,” she nods imploringly, “all for the protection of the guests, Persephone-assured.”

Taylor blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “We just lost our rings in one of the rooms, that’s all!”

But it’s not enough. She starts to wave down the other two workers. “These things happen, ser, we understand. However until your rings are recovered we cannot allow use of Persephone’s services.”

When Katherine finally joins the conversation she’s got a furrowed brow and a hint of ire on her tongue. 

“Jesus, Nik, leave it to you and your new boyfriends to make everyone’s fucking lives that much harder.”

Everyone’s startled for different reasons. Taylor and Cal exchange glances, mouth _‘boyfriends?’_ in absolute bewilderment. Nik looks ready to smother her with his sleeve it it’ll stop her current train of thought. The attendant’s cheeks go slightly blue with what must be their version of embarrassment at her vulgar language.

Only she doesn’t stop there. “Let me guess — while you had me and Cade waiting at the poker game you were… what, getting off in the steam room?”

And because he’s always been a sucker for improv Taylor takes Nik and Cal’s hands in his and squeezes. “I don’t really think that’s your business.”

“What, my _partner _isn’t my business?” she snaps.

“When he’s with us he’s definitely not _your _partner, honey.”

Katherine’s got a twinkle in her eye — elbows Cadence into action subtly while the attendant looks between them to see if she can settle their tiff on her own or if she’ll need backup.

“Like I care what your newest little toy has to say,” Katherine rolls her eyes dramatically, “but you kept us waiting then and you’re holding us up now! If Izzy’s gone by the time —”

“Pardon her,” Cadence leans down and apologizes to the fae in a low voice, “she’s had a bit of a _night._”

“I—I can tell.” Comes the squeaked-out reply.

“We really don’t want to cause a scene.”

“Of course.”

“Oh _come on,_” jeers Taylor — now fully in-character, “like poker compares to what we can give him? You’re out of your mind.”

Cadence hisses through clenched teeth and lets the fae fill in the rest for herself. _This doesn’t have to turn into a big scene. You only have to let them through._

She finally cracks; lets out a helpless little noise and stands aside. “We’ll have the spa searched for your missing belongings. Forgive us for delaying your — er — Persephone experience.”

The attendants are probably meant to stay in the elevator for the duration of the ride but as the three of them shuffle in — Taylor and Katherine now coming to verbal blows about some throwaway comment from “Miami last year!” — she worms her way out, presses the button for the lowest floor behind her, and helps her fellow worker close the gates to send them on their way.

Only when the glass panels close and plunge them into darkness does the fighting end.

He can _hear _Katherine’s smirk. “Not too shabby… who are you, again?”

“Taylor. That was actually kinda fun.”

“You really dropped the ball there, Ryder.”

“Hey, Kathy?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Not a chance.”

* * *

The noise is first. Cheers of joy and frustration and a distinct thudding followed by the clap-clap of hooves. 

Then come the lights; less fancy and bright than the ones back on the main level but they’re probably there for an ambiance or something — part of the fixation the rich have with things _looking _shabby and poor. And through the glass floor it doesn’t take long for their eyes to adjust. 

The last piece of the puzzle is the smell — old things like rust on chain-link fences and concrete that bring him back to the city for a flash. And underneath it the sour, coppery smell Taylor’s only recently come to understand is blood, freshly spilled.

It’s not just a cage match — it’s a bona fide _Fight Club_ being held a couple stories underneath the wealthiest properties in New Orleans. 

The crowd hangs in a thick mass of sweat and expensive perfumes around the center cage. Sways like the tide to keep their eyes on the fighters within as they rumble around their confines.

Up high they get a rare chance to see the fighting full-blown. Rare, and terrible. 

Taylor barely has time to clasp his hand over his mouth and hold back his exclamation. Watches as the hulking stone troll — _it’s not Krom, it’s not Krom, it’s not Krom_ — with geologic muscles pounds its fists against its chest and rushes at a startling speed towards the opponent.

The owner of the hooves is a satyr; half the troll’s height with horns included and stocky rather than built. There’s a chip in the curved ram-like horns and blood running down its face from a broken nose. 

It stomps against the concrete — and he has to ignore the splatters of dried blood in various colors to focus on the fight itself — and braces. Makes Taylor want to yell for it to move because there’s _no way_ it can hold back the sheer weight alone of the troll. He almost can’t watch. But it’s like a train wreck — he can’t look away.

The crowd erupts with noise at the collision. The satyr is stronger than it looks; holds back the troll first with its horns and doesn’t give it time to grab for the softer, fleshier parts before charging, bull-like, to push the heavier opponent all the way to the other side of the cage. 

Then it goes dark; the hand over his eyes just a little clammy. The troll roars in agony. 

He pulls Ryder’s hand away just in time to see the troll fall face-first. Thin, watery blood pools beneath it. His confusion doesn’t last long when he notices a jagged, torn edge of the caging bent into the cage like a spike. 

“No weapons inside,” Nik explains lowly; like he’s holding some sort of reverence for the troll now being dragged limp by its arms from the arena, “but that doesn’t stop the resourceful.”

A shirtless duo, what look like a brother and sister with a beauty so striking it can’t possibly be of this world, enter and take the satyr’s hands to raise it up as champion. Most of the crowd boos and jeers — Taylor can see why when the money begins changing hands near the shaded back of the space.

“People _enjoy _this?” He can’t help it when his voice cracks. 

“Violence is just another luxury when you’ve got enough money.”

The elevator grinds to a halt and Cadence pulls the doors open for their exit. 

“Keep close.” Ryder doesn’t give him much of a choice, what with the arm around his shoulders, but Taylor’s definitely not arguing right now. Not with what he just witnessed.

Several steps and something feels off — missing. Makes him look around to find Cal a few paces behind with a sickly pallor and his hands balled into fists.

“Cal, what’s wrong?”

It draws the attention of the others. Katherine follows the werewolf’s line of sight and mutters more than a few expletives under her breath. 

The walls are lined with (no doubt expensive) graffiti and posters larger than life. Some are peeling at the corners and bear ink faded with time and what might have once been sunlight. Now they’re almost relics of a bygone era — no, _eras _— of fighting. 

Nearest the elevator has to be the most recent title match. Glossy paper smoothed down and tacked in with polished nails, colors still vibrant and with a large piece of tape bearing SOLD OUT across the front partially obscuring the words.

But it doesn’t take a genius to piece it together.

_MARDI GRAS_ EXCLUSIVE!! ONLY FOUND AT PERSEPHONE!! MINOTAUR VS. WEREWOLF!! $5K BUY IN!! ASK YOUR ATTENDANT FOR DETAILS!!

Before Taylor can reach his side Cal doubles over and empties his stomach at his feet. They’re far back enough that it doesn’t grab anyone’s attention. Already the next round of bets is beginning and the mob is losing itself with greed and a hunger for blood. 

“Hey — Cal, hey,” he rubs the man’s broad back as he gags up the last of his spittle, “we’re here, we’ll get Donny before anything happens. He’s not gonna fight.”

Cal rights himself shakily; wipes his chin with the back of his hand. 

“How do you know — _guh _— he hasn’t already?”

He doesn’t. And doesn’t want to try and give Cal false hope. But his face says everything before he can try to put on a smile — makes Cal nod grimly. 

“Let’s just get this over with.”

A gaggle of goblin onlookers herd aside just in time for them to spot the bouncers haul away the unconscious stone troll through a metal warehouse door. 

Ryder jerks his head that way. “Likely where they’ve got all the fighters.”

“So let’s go.” Cal growls; starts to push his way through the bodies before Ryder grabs him and holds him back. “What the hell?”

Katherine clicks her tongue. “You don’t know what match they’re on. Storm in there now and every fighter who _wants _to be here could be back there waiting to turn you into ground beef.”

“But Don —”

“We’ve come too far to risk it now, Cal. Please…” The wolf looks into Taylor’s eyes — then his shoulders sag with a nod. 

“Fine. Just until we see what round they’re on.”

Ryder lets out a low whistle that draws Katherine’s attention. Sweeps her gaze over to what has to be some kind of VIP corner with a poor excuse for bleachers dotted with better-dressed guests smoking cigars and being served by attendants. 

Most of those guests are crowded around an older woman in all black. Set lines from an unkind tussle with the years around her thin lips and deep in her forehead. She doesn’t sacrifice her wealth for her mourning; and the high-cut thigh slit on her gown isn’t something you’d expect at a funeral anyway.

“Let me guess, Izzy?” Taylor asks as quietly as he can — practically whispering it in Ryder’s ear. 

But he doesn’t get the chance to answer as Isadora's ruby eyes fall on their group from across the crowd. The same color as Cadence’s back up on the floor.

_Oh. _

“So much for the element of surprise,” Katherine scoffs; throws a dirty look back Taylor’s way before resuming her position on Cadence the vampire’s arm. “Don’t have any fun without us.” 

With a tittering wave they’re gone — being let passed the velvet rope to Isadora's section and too far away for any of them to hear.

“What do you suppose they’re talking to her about?” He doesn’t bother whispering this time — knows they can hear him even if they don’t look his way before the movement of the crowd obscures them from view. 

Ryder shakes his head grimly. “Nothing good. So let’s not be caught making it our business.”

Though the betters and onlookers are of the same caliber as the party-goers back upstairs, the ambiance of the space is just _different_. Taylor isn’t the only one who feels it, either. Every time he grabs for Cal’s arm to keep them all together he feels the shiver of goosebumps — the wolf within knows something here is inherently _wrong_.

Up above it hadn’t seemed like all that shining wealth could be housed within the same realm as the thing that had gone after him in the cemetery. Now, though, he gets it. This is the _real _world; all the paint washed off and costumes put away. 

He definitely doesn’t find it as beautiful anymore. 

An unseen announcer takes to a pitchy speaker system to let everyone know the next match is in fifteen minutes and that all bets are final. It incites those around them to start placing their final calls — jostles them like a sudden storm at sea. 

He stumbles as a figure forces himself between Taylor and Nik. Scrawny shoulders like cut stones and a rusty mop of hair that ends just above a set of pointed ears suddenly turning to look at him with way too much malice for a stranger to have.

“Watch where you’re going, _mortal_.” When he speaks the fae’s accented voice cracks in a way Taylor’s all-too familiar with. It makes him grin despite himself and when the stranger takes an almost comical level of offense to it he laughs, too. 

With no shame, of course.

“What in the blazes is so funny?!” It’s obvious the kid — god, he can’t be more than a teenager or… whatever that is in elf years — puffs out his chest to look a little bit more intimidating. Obvious and wholly ineffective. 

Lucky for Taylor the only kind of people that make him look less masculine are preteen boys. 

“I’m —” pause to breathe again, “— I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you, I…” _No, yeah, he is. _

“How dare you,” is the sneered response, “do you know _who I am?_ When I tell my father of your impertinence you will rue this!”

Well that just kind of kills the joke. Makes Taylor look back to Cal who doesn’t make a show of hiding his curled upper lip. 

“Whoa there. Calm down Little Elfen Annie, you bumped into _my friend_, here. So how about instead of empty threats you try an apology?”

Somehow the youth finds more of himself to puff out but it’s no match for Cal’s werewolf physique. He dwarfs the redhead effortlessly. And only _then _does the kid notice.

“Of _course _you’re a shifter. One of the impure, no doubt.”

Taylor gawks. “Hey, watch it. Now you’re just being a dick.”

“You vulgar —”

“You wanna talk _vulgarity _twerp you ain’t heard —”

“Oh god — N-Nik! Nik! Ni —”

They all three fall silent when Ryder’s calloused hand falls on the elf’s decorated shoulder. Makes him look up (and up) into the Nighthunter’s stone-cold expression with the barest flicker of fear showing through his bravado.

“Get. lost.” 

Ryder doesn’t have to tell him twice. Though he does make it look like he’s choosing to leave — rights his blazer and mutters something in a lilting language under his breath that Taylor _thinks _he catches a bit of but, obviously, doesn’t speak so he lets it go. 

“What the hell happened to ‘laying low?’” Nik scolds the pair of them. Barely enough to get Cal to calm down. “Put it on ice, Kujo. Before you get us kicked out and then no one’s gonna save your brother’s sorry tail.”

Whatever curse Cal throws at Ryder’s turned back is lost when the crowd starts cheering and chanting around the cage. Draws their attentions to the far end where the back door opens and a large, hulking shadow casts over the dim lit hallway beyond.

_“We know you’re all buzzing for the fight of the night, folks!”_ comes the Announcer’s voice overhead. Cal whispers a “no…” and Taylor feels his stomach drop out from under him.

_“But we thought we’d give the poor wolf pup a fightin’ chance. So who wants to see our reigning champion take on the as-yet undefeated Corbyn the Satyr?!”_

All around come shouts and chants of _“bloody him!”_ and _“break his face!”_ — along with the odd _“get me my money’s worth, damn goat!”_

Then a loud snorting noise rings through the arena and makes a hush fall over the crowd. 

_“Min-o-taur.”_

_“Min-o-taur.”_

_“Min-o-taur! Min-o-taur! MIN-O-TAUR!” _

Soon the chant fills the air like a gospel. Draws out the god in question from the doorway in a prayer. 

The Minotaur is everything and more. Just like in the movies but _real_; a _real _bull’s head on top of a _real _hairy body covered in mottled scars and wounds that fade into two of the biggest blackest hooves Taylor’s ever seen. 

Atop his head are polished horns that, even from a distance, he knows could impale him without resistance. 

The Minotaur stomps into the middle of the cage and raises its large arms. Encourages the crowd to chant higher, louder, faster. It revels in the sound of its name; tips back it’s enormous head and lets out a deep howl that actually shakes the metal of the cage. The crowd bursts into cheers like animals possessed at the sound of it. 

For the first time Ryder actually looks worried.

“We gotta find that kid wolf before that thing tears out his spine.”

Taylor cringes at the mental image. “Jesus, Ryder, have some —”

“No,” Cal interrupts hollowly; never looks away from the Minotaur as it riles up the crowd by hammering its fists on its chest and bellowing in their faces, “he’s right. Donny’s dead if he gets in that cage.”

Just as the creature huffs in a group of faces at the front there’s a hot breath on the back of Taylor’s neck. Makes him yelp and jump sky-high away from the shiver that curdles up his spine. 

“Hnn _what the hell?!_”

The perpetrator, a lemon-yellow goblin with a head almost as tall as his torso, grins his equally yellow teeth at them with fingers folded at his chin.

“Did Meerl hear right?” the goblin eyes Taylor up and down like a snack and it’s an experience he never wants to have ever ever again, “When Meerl was hearing that little mortal man wants in cage?”

Meerl (apparently) wiggles his fingers like long spider legs. “Meerl can make this happen.”

“Wha —” — _nope, nope, a big fat fucking nope_ — “— no way, I —”

“Yeah, we want in.” Nik interrupts, holds Taylor back and snaps several times to grab Meerl’s glittering glance. 

“How much?”

Cal snarls. “Ryder, what the fuck?”

“Shut up, wolfpack,” then he repeats; “I asked how much, worm.”

“Meerl only asks for small percent — small percent of mortal’s winning.”

“That’s assumin’ he wins.”

“Meerl can make this happen.”

“Oh yeah?” 

“Yes, yes. Come speak with Meerl — Meerl will make mortal rich.”

Before Taylor can protest any further Meerl starts off; pushing his spindly way through the throng just as the cage door shuts with the satyr Corbyn and the Minotaur locked inside.

He grabs onto Ryder in a panic. “What are you _doing?!_”

The answer he gets isn’t verbal — instead it’s just a look on his bodyguard’s face that (against his body’s wishes, very much so) makes Taylor’s heart do a backflip and stick the landing. 

“Do you trust me to keep you safe?” Nik doesn’t take. Not this time. Instead just offers his hand cuts and all. He can hear Cal start to protest behind him and, farther up, sees Meerl turn and give them what he probably thinks is a sweet smile and a wave of his claws. 

“Taylor.”

Nik’s voice brings him back to himself. _What the fuck am I doing?_

He hesitates… then puts his hand in Nik’s.

“I trust you.”

“Then come on.”

He throws back a pleading look at Cal — who definitely still opposes, but follows with a single nod. 

Nik pulls him along in a secure grip to where Meerl waits. The closer to the cage the tighter the fit but they manage. All the way across the room to the metal door guarded by two suited stone trolls.

“Shit,” says one, and looks the three of them over, “you actually _found one?_”

“Meerl does good business, should not doubt Meerl,” the goblin croons. With a doubtful glance to his companion the troll shrugs and opens the door. 

“Come, come friends,” Taylor tries not to let the goblin’s chuckling dissuade him from trusting Ryder as they’re led inside, “good business to be done.”

If he squeezes Nik’s hand a little tighter when the door slams shut, the hunter is a real bro and doesn’t mention it.

* * *

The thing about Meerl’s deal is that it isn’t a _bad _one in theory. 

It’s Their way of keeping the fighting interesting and preventing people from accusing the club of rigging every match. Bring a Joe Schmoe in from the crowd itself and, should he win, most of the winnings are his. It’s a good return of investments for those who spend a little bit too much time and money betting on fighters. 

And little Meerl gets a cut of the winnings. Not even half, not even a quarter! There would definitely be enough left over for the inevitable medical bills.

So it’s a sound theory — for someone like the Minotaur.

For the human going up against said Minotaur? Well yeah it’s a fucking death sentence; a warm-up routine for the hulking creature and an easy paycheck for the goblin whose job it is to bring in fresh meat.

Not that any of this is said out in the open but it’s obvious. Like, painfully obvious. 

Which is why Ryder isn’t actually considering entertaining the idea.

_Wait… right?_

The fact that they’re led to a small room with only a desk and some paperwork should raise way more alarms on his so-called ‘bodyguard’ than his behavior would suggest. 

Cal tries to keep out of the way; “I’ll wait out here, keep an eye on things,” but Meerl isn’t having it and ushers him in alongside. Closes the door to give them ‘privacy to discuss business matters,’ or whatever.

Doesn’t stop the wolf from nudging Taylor’s arm and jerking his head back out to the dark corridor. Not that they’ve gotten close enough in the—oh—three, four hours they’ve known each other by now but he doesn’t have to be psychic to get it.

Cal’s caught Donny’s scent. They’re in the right place at the wrong time.

The goblin scrambles to work; a fire lit under his yellow ass as he starts grabbing and shuffling piles of paper, packets, and waivers of various official pastels. Starts explaining everything in that hasty way one does when things aren’t completely legit. But Ryder eats it up like he’s just won the lottery.

Frankly it’s disturbing seeing him smile that much.

Before they suffer death by a thousand paper cuts, though, he puts his palm down on the already too-high stack of liability forms. His smile is so greasy it makes the goblin look positively angelic. 

“I think this is a _great _starting point, Meerl,” he grabs Taylor by the shoulder and shakes him with camaraderie, “but this is my kid’s first fight — cold feet, you know.”

“Oh yes yes, yes Meerl knows.” 

“So may~be you could gimme a few minutes with him? Help settle those nerves in a _special way._”

It’s the wink that makes Taylor lean back. “Uh, excuse you?”

But Meerl is already stood and skittering towards the door. “Oh yes — yes Meerl sees this quite often, Meerl does. Give you, hm, say five minutes, yes?”

“Ten.”

“Six.”

“Fifteen!” 

Turns out yellow skin goes sort of orange when it pales. But Meerl accepts with a huff and a nod. “Ten minutes, Meerl will give. Then new mortal will face champion — then champion will face wolf pup.”

The pop pop of Cal’s cracked knuckles as he clenches his fists echoes through the concrete walls.

“Or maybe the new mortal — er, me, you know what I mean! — maybe I’ll face the wolf pup.” Taylor jibes. 

Any sensible person would take the way the goblin throws his head back in laughter as a clear sign to get the hell out. 

“Yes,” Meerl’s tone is nothing short of placating as he closes the door behind him, “yes maybe—maybe…”

And though he may not be perfectly sensible, Taylor’s sensible enough to smack Ryder over the head the moment they’re all alone.

“Hi, yeah remember that ‘trust’ you asked for? It’s waning — _fast_.”

Maybe a little less so when Ryder scoops the paperwork onto the floor in a colorful confetti-like array. There’s no imagining his satisfaction.

“I got us back here, didn’t I?”

“With the sleaze-ball right outside the door.”

Ryder ignores him for Cal; “Can you track him from here?”

“He’s definitely close,” he’s almost breathless with anticipation, fear, worry; “he’s terrified.”

“I would be if I had to face that thing, too.”

Either the stone walls suck at muffling sounds or the crowd is losing its collective shit over the match. He knows which is more likely. 

Ryder continues; reaches into one of the inside pockets on his coat and winds something long and dark around his fist. “So we’re all clear on the plan?”

Cal nods tersely. Taylor, not so much. 

“Uhm, when was there a plan? Did I miss talking about a plan?”

“Jesus,” the hunter pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’m gonna start calling you Rookie if you can’t keep up.”

Before Taylor can protest, though, Cal comes to his rescue. “Same thing it’s always been. We got in — now we find Donny and get out as quick as we can. And probably try not to get our faces busted in on the way.”

“And once we’re out?” He looks back and forth so fast he gets a bit dizzy, “You said Kristof was sending some of the Pack after him. Won’t you be on the run?”

“You let me worry about that. I’ll get you your Sage and we can part ways.”

Ryder nods curtly; flexes what Taylor can now see clearly as a thickly braided leather cord between his hands. “Sounds good.”

“No, no it doesn’t!”

“Taylor,” and Cal shouldn’t sound as sure as he does given his situation — not just the one he’s in but the one he’s _going _to be in, “hey — we’ll be okay. Thanks for the concern but… we’ll be okay.”

It’s likely Ryder’s keen Nighthunter-honed senses that spring him into action because any more time to delay and Taylor might just talk them into a newer, tighter corner than the one they’re already in. But just _abandoning _Cal after, well, after _everything?_ It just doesn’t sit right in his gut.

“On my signal.”

He barely paints the fake smile back on before rapping his wrapped knuckles on the door. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

_Is that the signal?_ No, because he doesn’t move when the wiggly door knob turns and Meerl’s scratchy voice sing-songs through the gap; “Good good! Meerl promises —”

No, the signal is the cutoff and choking gasps of Nik winding the bulk of the cord around the goblin’s skinny throat. Hands flailing, grasping for purchase where there is none while his tongue lolls out and eyes bulge even farther out of their sockets than they already do.

“Knock him out!” hisses Ryder through clenched teeth. Angles their dear friend Meerl over to Cal’s drawn-back fist. 

The punch collides with a sickening cracking noise; something definitely broken in either the wolf’s hand or the goblin’s face. Taylor and likely the betting crowd outside would have all their earnings on the latter.

But just before he falls Meerl manages a single attack; sharp nails digging unforgiving into Ryder’s forearm before his eyes roll back into unconsciousness.

Ryder recoils and the body falls through the doorway just as Taylor catches the sound of footsteps halting. His heart stops — only barely starts back up again when he recognizes the distinct metal-tipped sound.

Cadence peeks a head around the doorway; pushes up his glasses before they fall off of his nose. Behind him Katherine appears with a long dagger in hand. 

“Here they are.” Cadence announces with all the glee of a man stating the obvious. He catches sight of Meerl and quickly steps away from the long tongue just an inch from his boot. “Ew.”

He gives Taylor a slight wave. Entirely too optimistic for the current situation. Unsure of what else to do Taylor just… waves back?

Ryder, however, is furious. “Kath—what the _hell _—” he looks around them both to check the coast is clear, “— are you doing back here?!”

Katherine barely has time to return the dagger to a well-concealed holder on her thigh before Cadence pulls her in for a disgruntled side-hug. 

“She was worried about you.”

“I said no such thing.”

“You didn’t need to,” he admonishes, “I could tell. Kept watching them during our meeting with Isadora — she noticed, by the way. So thanks for that.”

“You didn’t hire me to kiss her ass.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Without being asked Cadence joins Ryder in dragging Meerl’s body fully into the room. 

Cal looks between them as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “If we’re done with the childish bullshit? My brother’s about to get beaten to death.”

He pushes past Katherine with nothing more than a grunt. If she wants to say anything she doesn’t; bites her tongue and probably everyone’s benefit. 

Taylor calls out, “Cal, wait up!” and follows on his heels as quickly as he can. Doesn’t look back to see if the others will follow but he doesn’t have to. 

Bodyguard, remember?

The corridor seems to stretch on forever. Open doors lead to empty rooms and closed doors — well — Cal may be in a hurry but he has the sense not to open them without being absolutely sure what’s on the other side. 

They’re so far back he can barely hear the noises from the arena. All it takes is one look down to his feet and he collides hard into the werewolf’s solid muscle. Flails a hand out only to be caught by his strong grip. 

“Here — he’s here! Donny! Donny can you hear me?! It’s Cal! Donny!” He tries the handle; growls in primal frustration at the lock. Starts trying to knock it down with the brunt of his weight in a frenzy.

“Donny! Donny hold on!”

Cadence and the Nighthunters arrive just as Cal lets out a bestial growl; teeth grit and definitely more canine than human as he gives a final shove and breaks a splintered hole in the door. Knocks it off its hinges and sends it flying inward.

Cal rushes in — zeroes on a dark-haired and twiggy kid pressed against the bars that hold him captive.

“Cal!” The kid cries, voice thick and choked with eyes red-rimmed from tears. His hands shake as they grasp for one another like sheer force of will can make the bars disappear between them. Cal buries his nose in the mop of dark hair and inhales deeply, lets something wild shift underneath his skin before it settles; satisfied with the scent of kin.

“Christ, Donny —” he pulls back and thumbs away a fresh wave of tears, “— you’re such an idiot! I was worried sick about you!” 

“I’m so sorry Cal, I’m so so sorry.” Donny hiccoughs; tries to right himself like he has something to prove.

But how can anyone prove themselves trapped in a cell? One of a dozen on either side stretching further into the labyrinth underneath Persephone. 

Taylor and the others follow in — no door to close behind them but they’re far beyond that now. Take in the state of not only the kid but a couple others who press themselves up to their bars in desperation. 

_“Please get me out of here!”_

_“I’ve got the money, I swear! Get me out and I’ll pay off Lady Smoke I promise!”_

_“Please, please!”_

_“I don’t want to fight anymore!”_

It’s involuntary how Taylor turns away and into the newfound safety of Ryder’s shoulder. He can feel the shaking of the man’s hand as it falls on his back.

Katherine lets out a choked noise beside them. “Holy shit, this is…”

“This is too far.” Cadence answers; knows they were thinking the same thing by the way she’s left speechless.

His grunts of effort and frustration fill the room as Cal tries to yank off the door — instinct overriding common sense.

Ryder reaches out, tries to stop him, but ends up on the business end of those same pointed teeth when the wolf rounds on him with bright yellow eyes.

“Whoa now,” Ryder holds up his hands and shimmies down his left sleeve to show a long metal tool, “I’m just tryin’a help.”

“Cal — I already tried that.” Donny reaches out and his touch soothes the beast within. Makes Cal remember himself enough to give Ryder an apologetic nod of his head before stepping aside. 

He huffs in silence like _he’s _the one caged, not his brother. But not all cages are metal, are they?

Ryder takes a knee in front of the door, starts to fiddle with the lock. Katherine takes his cue and procures a lockpick of her own to start working on the other cells.

Cadence keeps his distance from the occupants but looks them over with almost medical appraisal. “You’re here because you owe Lady Smoke on some level?”

A few cells down hooves echo and a woman leans forward; presses her face against the bars and peers at them through two swollen blackened eyes. The centaur leans down and rubs the tight muscle of one of her front legs — she favors it when she shifts in place. 

“Some of us couldn’t pay up; others just not in time.”

“Were you given a choice to fight?”

She nods. “Again; some. I wouldn’t fit on her private floor, though, so I was just brought down here to fight.”

It makes Katherine let out a wordless, mindless shout of anger. She struggles with the lockpick. “That’s fucking ridiculous.”

“It’s gotta be illegal…” Taylor tries. Only to be met with pitying faces.

Cadence shakes his head. “Not here. Though when it comes to Lady Smoke they’re lucky to still be alive.”

The centaur scoffs. “At least if I die in the cage there’ll be a body to bring back to my wife.”

It makes his blood run cold. “Who _is _this Smoke woman?”

Not even the captives have anything to say and that says a whole lot. Whoever she is she’s a part of this world that he doesn’t want to get involved in — that much is clear.

A _thunk _and Donny’s door swings open. He and Cal embrace without restraint this time and there’s such a heavy importance to it that Taylor finds himself looking away. Like he’s intruding.

Ryder moves on to the next cell and together he and Katherine work as quickly as they can to free the others. 

Katherine sweeps the trail of her dress aside in front of the centaur but stops when a hand of bloodied knuckles rests over hers. Looks up into the human face with reverence.

“Don’t. I asked for this.”

“You didn’t. Nobody asks for… for _this_.”

“It was fight or let them take my home; my livelihood. It’s hard enough for the glamourless to get by these days. I didn’t want my wife to lose the roof over her head, too.”

Kathy’s jaw sets. “Then we’ll find you a new livelihood. Get you and your wife out of the city —”

“And where would we go?” Her laugh is rueful with a whinnying touch. “My family cast me out for marrying a biped. This is the only place we’ve found to call our own. 

“Sssh, Nighthunter,” her thumb caresses Katherine’s hand gently, “no more arguments. I do not intend to die in a cage. And when I return to my love we’ll be free of the Smoke’s reins.”

“She deserves to keep her choice, Kathy,” Ryder coaxes her up and though his touch might intend to comfort her it doesn’t; makes her pull away as if in pain.

In that intimate moment Taylor was sure he saw a different person in her eyes. But whoever that person was — maybe caring, maybe mournful — she’s gone now. Replaced with Katherine and her hard edges. 

“Whatever.”

The four other freed prisoners don’t stick around long enough for similar sentimental moments. Hopefully they’ve been down there long enough that they know their way out. 

Donny, his hand in his brother’s like a vice, tries to follow them. “Let’s get out of here.” But Cal doesn’t move — makes him try again. “Cal, come _on_. I hate this place let’s _go._”

There’s an unspoken understanding between those left standing. 

It’s not enough to just open the doors. The cage needs to be torn down.

Cal sighs in defeat. “Well, they _were _promised a wolf in the cage. I can go — hey, what the—?”

They all watch as Cadence rounds on a metal heel and abandons them. Katherine barely has time to look back before hiking her skirts up for her dagger and following; calling out for him to wait for her to catch up.

“What’re you thinking? Cade? Cade! Cadence Smith you stop right there! Or at least let me catch up!”

Everyone catches up in time for Cadence to shove the back passage door open. 

The pair must have initially gone through without confrontation — judging by the surprised looks on the guard trolls faces. One reaches out with a large sandstone grip but the vampire is too fast for him — moves faster than Taylor can blink and turns the tables with a grasp of his own.

“Oi — let me — _GAH!_”

He’s too loud _not _to be noticed. Draws the attention of the nearest patrons and from there it’s a domino effect as the mob pushes and jostles one another to try and get a look at the action.

The stone troll holds up a stump where his hand used to be. Looks down in horror at the remains of two limp fingers and the rest of his hand as a pile of sand. Cadence steps through the pile rather than over it. Leaves him to his agony without so much as a word.

Even the Minotaur — now alone in the cage and egging those still watching on with demonstrations of rippling muscles and the shine of its nose ring — stops. And that — _that _gets the arena’s attention.

In one last attempt to stop him Katherine reaches out; misses him by a bare inch and can’t stop Cadence from grabbing the announcer by the throat to pin him to the cage.

The seemingly mortal man is already red in the face from his work shouting. Lack of oxygen makes him almost purple under the flickering lights. Anger, outrage quickly melts into confusion then fear when he realizes his large and seemingly impenetrable guards aren’t coming to rescue him.

“I—_gek_—Can I hh-elp you, frie-end?” He chokes into his mic. 

Before Katherine can lunge forward Ryder grabs her; holds her back. For her own safety. 

“Cade — don’t do this!”

Her protest falls on deaf ears. When the vampire answers he does so close enough for the speakers to catch him — his barely repressed rage translates even though the static.

“Tell your audience your main event is canceled!”

And doesn’t that get everyone riled up. 

“Wha—_what?!_” He covers the mic with a shaky purpling hand. “What the fuck are you on, man? Le-et me do-own!”

He falls back on his feet. Just in time to catch Cadence’s suit jacket before it hits his face; blinds him. 

Cadence liberates him of his microphone for his trouble. “Though first you should tell them that your promised contender is nothing more than a child!” A jabbed finger parts the wealthy sea; Donny clings tighter to his brother as all eyes fall on him. “_This_, ladies and gentlemen, is the werewolf that was promised! Not a wolf but a cub — who you would see torn limb from limb!

“And because I know there are far too many of you who aren’t sickened — nay, _repulsed _— by the idea of a child being mauled for your delight; to those I offer you this sobering thought! _Not much of a fair fight, is it?!_”

His words spread like a wildfire — dissent beginning to rile those who have shared money and hands through the night. Taylor catches sight of a man too late — doesn’t have time to stop him from shoving the announcer back against the cage with a shout.

_“I should’a known this shit was rigged!”_

“Hey, watch it pal!”

_“No, you watch it!”_

There’s electrical feedback as Katherine renews her attempts — tries to wrestle the mic from her employer to no avail. He brushes her off like a hurricane would a butterfly.

“Fear not, _vermin_, you will get the fight you were promised. And a _fair _one at that.”

He’s done with it now; shoves it into Katherine’s claws and busies himself rolling up his sleeves. 

“Cadence — you’re not yourself.” And because he doesn’t know better she actually sounds _afraid. _

“How do you know?” There’s a dry laughter to his words. “You don’t. I don’t, either. But maybe this is it — maybe this is me. And even if it isn’t I’m not going to let a _child _pay a debt like a _man_.”

But Cal’s had enough. “If they want a wolf they’ll get a wolf! This isn’t your fight!”

“No,” and it’s with a foreign tenderness that Cal removes his spectacles and pries the single golden loop from his ear; drops them into Katherine’s waiting hand, “but neither is it yours.”

“Don’t let him do this.” Taylor tries to push his way through the crowd; but is stopped by Ryder’s hand on his jacket sleeve. He’s deceptively stronger than he looks. “Nik!”

“No, Rookie. We’re sitting this one out.”

Taylor struggles but to no avail. “But—”

“I said _no_.” Means it, too, by the end-of-discussion way he clips his teeth. “This guy is _nuts_, Kathy.”

And it seems the Nighthunters have finally found one thing on which they agree.

“Yeah,” she can’t — or won’t — look away from Cadence’s back, “desperation does that to you.”

When he’s ready, scarlet eyes fall on the announcer still shivering in place. Make him jump to Cadence’s attention.

“Open the cage.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the belated posting! Ironically I wasn't feeling well so this week the chapters were both posted _not_ on the usual day. But hopefully two chapters makes up for it!
> 
> Anyone have a bet to place? It’s winner take all. As usual comments and critique would be amazing. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	7. Two Wrongs End in a Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes good intentions aren’t enough. Sometimes no matter what there are always consequences to your actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **note (11/20):** All previous and future references to the original (side) character _Isabella 'Izzy'_ have been changed to the correct name _Isadora 'Izzy'_. They are indeed the same character; that was a mistake on my part! Sorry for the confusion!
> 
> **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, blood, forced fighting

Even on opposite sides of the ring the Minotaur makes Cadence look almost comically small. Which is saying something for this height.

They circle one another; complete opposites. The Minotaur either doesn’t understand or doesn’t care that its opponent has changed. It beats hulking fists against it’s chest and lets out deep, intimidating huffs and snorts of it’s large bull head. Even with the metal between them those who end up behind the beast on the outside back off for their safety.

But it’s tactics aren’t working on the stony-faced vampire — it can tell. Ends up roaring louder and louder, so loud Taylor has to cover his ears with his palms and it _still _hurts.

On the outside Ryder pushes his way to Katherine with Taylor in tow. Growls out in a low breath; “What the fuck does he think he’s doing? He’s gonna get us all killed.”

Katherine snorts. “You’re not the one in the cage, Nik.”

“That may be but I gotta get the wolves outta here. Like, _now._”

“Or what?” It’s enough to wrench her eyes away from the fighters and their posturing.

“I don’t know and I don’t wanna find out. But if Kristof’s boys find us…”

“Shit, he actually sent Pack into town?” Ryder nods and her grip tightens on the cage links. “Well — I — I can’t _leave him,_ Ryder. Not now, especially.”

And if that’s his intention Taylor wants to stop that shit right quick. Grabs onto Ryder’s shoulder.

“We’re not leaving. Not until he’s out of that cage.”

“Stay outta this, Taylor. It ain’t your business.”

“Maybe not. But I don’t want to… I mean if we could help…”

Katherine throws him back a _look._ “You want to help?”

“Of course.”

“Then pick a god and pray.”

If Cadence is looking for any sign of an opening or weakness — the audience decides he isn’t allowed the luxury. One brave soul, pushed forward by other less-brave souls, jumps at the cage right as the Minotaur turns its back to him — slams his fists and rattles the metal with ferocity.

_“Get to the fuckin’ fight!”_ he rages.

The Minotaur scrapes a hoof against the concrete — and charges.

The vampire dives away an inch too late — cries out when a strong hand wraps around his ankle and throws him across the cage like a ragdoll.

There was a phase Taylor went through early into his transition where he tried (the operative word) getting into things all young American boys are supposed to be into; cars, gym memberships, wrestling. None of them ever stuck — wrestling the most of all. There were healthier ways to work out aggression than mindlessly beating someone else to a pulp. Didn’t matter if it was ‘all staged’ or not. He’s not a fan of violence.

So when he watches those nearest where Cadence falls whoop and cheer and scream in his fallen face it takes everything inside of him not to look away in disgust.

Cade flips his messy hair out of his eyes — reaches to wipe blood from his temple with the back of his hand but only succeeds in smearing it into his locks. He tries to jump to his feet but can’t — lets out a cry and crumples to his knees favoring the right side.

_“Get up!”_

_“Pathetic!”_

_“Someone bring in the wolf!”_

Katherine looks ready to threaten a jeering woman next to her but instead uses her clenched fist to bang against the metal. “Come on, Cade! Set it and get up!”

And Taylor’s sure he’s not the only wide-eyed watcher as, as though she commanded it of him, the vampire stands and hammers his fist into his knee. Puts it back into place judging by the way he tests out the joint.

The Minotaur doesn’t take the time to relish its victory. Charges again but this time Cade’s ready — this time he’s waiting. This time he slides between the hairy hooves rather than trying to move aside and spins in the dirt to kick the beast in the lower back.

The Minotaur falls with a strangled noise. Catches its horns on the cage and wrestles itself out with mindless rage before whirling around and swiping its lowered head like a skilled swordsman would his blades.

Like they’re moving to the chants and calls for blood and gore as music, Cadence and the Minotaur dance around one another for what feels like forever. Every blow the creature lands is quickly healed on the vampire with only streaks of blood and torn clothes a reminder they happened at all. And while Cadence’s attacks on the Minotaur seem calculated and with intent they might as well be near misses.

But the Minotaur is smart. Smarter than it looks. And rather than letting Cadence form a gap between them to recover from a hook to the jaw it charges again, horns prone, and sinks deep into the meat of the vampire’s side before tearing away.

_“CADENCE!”_

Without even so much as a cry of pain he staggers back. Everyone else backs away; treats his wound like a plague rather than one made of their own selfishness and greed. Everyone but Katherine. Who struggles to try and fit her fingers through the gaps in the links. Like sheer force of will will press her through the space occupied by something else and bring her to him.

He collapses on his knees; she mirrors him without thinking. This time it’s Taylor who holds back Ryder from trying to pry her away. In retrospect he’s probably just concerned for Kathy’s safety around a wounded — no doubt starving — vampire. But something about the moment in front of them screams not to be interrupted.

Katherine’s hair obscures Cade’s face — so close they could be locked in a passionate kiss. He clutches to the hole in his side and his time the blood doesn’t stop flowing. Just another coat and color added to the already decorated concrete.

Taylor’s eyes fixate on the white-knuckled grip onto which the vampire holds the fence. Could swear it looks like the links in the rusting chain metal are starting to groan and bend under the pressure. Catches his rasping voice only because the anticipation of the inevitable kill and continued victory streak for their champion has his fans silent; practically on the edge of orgasm.

_“Something’s happening, Kathy_—__”__

Cade’s whisper sounds like a scream in his ears.

Katherine slowly — hesitantly — places her hand over his.

_“Don’t fight it. Let it swallow you whole.”_

_“Let it…?”_

_“Swallow you whole, Cadence. Become it.”_

_“I — no — what if —”_

_“If you don’t you’ll die in here. And then you’ll never know the truth. You don’t want that.”_ And when he doesn’t respond; _“I told you I’d be your last. Don’t make me a liar.”_

Taylor wants to pull them apart. Feels somehow like the advice she’s giving is inherently bad — filled with unknowns and secrets he’s not privy to and probably for good reason.

There’s a fraction of a second where it looks like he’s given up — made a liar out of her anyway. But when Cadence pulls back and catches Taylor’s eye over the huntress’ shoulder he realizes almost too late how wrong he is.

Too late for him, for Ryder, for Katherine… Definitely too late for the Minotaur. Because it looked at first like this fight was going to be man versus beast. But the thing trapped in the cage isn’t a man at all. _He isn’t a man at all._

He grins mouthy and fanged like he can read Taylor’s thoughts. Something cocky and righteous; no trace of the previous pain.

The tense rope of silence finally snaps to thunderous applause when the Minotaur goes in for the kill. Yanks Cadence back like it’s just going through the motions of the finish of the fight. Picks him up and hauls the smaller form over his head to let it shatter on the ground.

Only he doesn’t. He never collides with the floor.

Instead lands nimbly on his feet; dusts himself off like there isn’t a hole of gore in his side and his shirt isn’t half torn off. Takes the stunned expression on the Minotaur’s face to right himself with a gentlemanly scrutiny.

The shock wears off quickly — literally shaken aside with a huff of displeasure and confusion and twitching bull’s ears. It doesn’t know what happened. And for once it isn’t alone. But it knows so little about the world — knows only what it’s been made to do.

So it does what it does best. It charges.

The hoof raises but Cade’s already across the ring. Several jabs to the chest of the beast; ribs and around the back to the spine. Just like before, Taylor realizes — perhaps too late, only somehow different.

Before a hit sent the Minotaur stumbling. Now it doesn’t take a goblin’s heightened hearing to catch the _crunch _and crack of the broken spine that follows.

Over and over he moves faster than the Minotaur — and the crowd — can see. Too fast for his body to heal; judging by the cage-front watchers and the flecks of blood on their faces and fancy coats. If Taylor didn’t know better — _and who knows, maybe he doesn’t_ — he’d swear the vampire is _enjoying _his victory. _Playing _with the Minotaur like a toy.

_Prolonging the inevitable._

In a final violent act a white-knuckled grip grabs on a horn and _yanks_ hard enough to throw the entire weight of the creature off-kilter. A fallen feather in a hurricane.

The Minotaur lies in a slowly growing pool of its own blood. Spreading into the grooves left by charing hooves and fallen opponents and pooling in an abstract tale of the first and only defeat. The metallic smell is awful; pungent. Makes Taylor feel nauseous.

He’s pretty sure even Minotaurs shouldn’t be able to bend their arms the opposite direction at the elbow.

And in the corner; Cadence. The broken horn a trophy of victory in his grasp.

He stepped into the cage to try and right a wrong — Taylor understands that. But now… now he’s not so sure what’s left standing. _What did Katherine _do _to him?_

An unnerving silence ripples out from the victorious vampire. Spreads out to every soul watching as he walks calmly to the cage entrance. Katherine only has to gesture before the announcer is fumbling with a strange set of keys.

The Taylor from before all of this strangeness would have chocked up the thin shimmering veil that dissipates around the lock when a key slides home as nothing but heat or a trick of the light. The Taylor of now isn’t so sure.

Two bouncers rush in and around Cadence — look to each other for answers on how to go about dragging the Minotaur from the ring. Obviously something they aren’t quite used to. They end up grabbing one furry arm a-piece and drag with all their might.

Cadence keeps a tight grip on his prize even as Katherine coaxes him out. When she tries to hand him back his things he doesn’t seem to recognize them — not until she pulls the golden earring from some unseen pocket.

That he takes — pins back in place with careful precision. As though his hands aren’t stained in another creature’s blood.

“We’re leaving.” Katherine snaps at the announcer. Holds up a sharp nail at the end of a _‘not taking your shit’_ finger and presses it to the man’s gaping void of a mouth. “Keep your prize money. And tell Lady Smoke what’ll happen to her next _champion_… to ensure there isn’t one.”

Though her confidence is unwavering, the hunter still looks back to Cade as if to ask _‘is this what you wanted?’_ And hopefully she can take his silence as an agreement. Because it’s all they’re apparently getting out of him.

The Nighthunters exchange silent conversation that ends in a single curt nod; joined as if by a thread.

Nik wraps an arm around Taylor’s waist — jerks his head for Cal and Donny to follow as he starts ushering them through the crowd before it awakens.

“We’re gettin’ outta here.”

Taylor throws a look back to the pair. Watches Katherine throw Cadence’s jacket over his broad shoulders. “But…”

“No, Rookie. Not this time.”

“Nik, if you just —”

“Let it go.”

“But —”

_“Let. it. go.”_ Clenched teeth, a squeeze on his shoulder. He’s not kidding and isn’t taking no for an answer.

He’s about to let it go. Really, he truly is.

Then he sees a distinct and familiar type of full-arm glove reaching to wipe away tears from a familiar type of face. Finds himself lurching out of the safety of Ryder’s closeness and pushing through until the cage stops him — just an obstacle but enough of one that he grasps the rusted links in his clutches and tries to part them like they’re gossamer threads.

“Vera!”

Behind him he knows they’re calling for him — “Taylor!” and “Rook!” and “Hey!” — but they don’t matter.

“Vera!” Rattling the cage like just another man losing his life savings on a bad bet. “Vera! Hey Vera! Over here! Vera!”

She’s real — wasn’t a fever dream. She was real and they abandoned her outside the cemetery but she also knew; had to have known _something._ Why else wouldn’t she have joined them in their fearful delirium? Why did she say _what _instead of _who?_

_“Vera!”_

She knows because _she’s here._ Here in this wonderfully hidden monstrosity of a place. She knows because she’s hidden in this secret world just like he is and that means she’s far more responsible for what happened to Kristin than he is.

_God, she fucking knew!_

_“VERA!”_ Taylor slams his fist and rattles the cage. Catches a dip in the volume of the place just enough for her to peek between her delicately gloved hands and catch his eye. All the people in the place and she sees _him._

Yeah, she _should _look scared.

Her name like an incantation falls a flat consonant when he’s wrenched back by Ryder’s strong hand. Forced to turn away from the undeniable proof he didn’t even know he was looking for to look into a different kind of proof. The kind in Ryder’s stony eyes.

“What’re you doing, Rook?” — because apparently _that _nickname is gonna stick — “Is it Opposite Day and no one decided to tell me? Do I gotta tell you _‘hey, let’s stay and grab a game of Blackjack’_ for you to — Taylor! I’m — Don’t you run away from me!”

But he is. Is already done with hearing Ryder’s complaints because _Vera’s just over there_ and _does she know about Krissy_ and _move so I can get to her._

Only he makes it about three-point-two steps in that general direction before Ryder’s tugging him back; this time without verbal argument.

“No—Nik no you don’t understand—Nik she’s —”

_“Who?”_

Who, indeed. Certainly not Vera, because there’s a gaping hole where she was standing just a moment ago that’s slowly being filled by increasingly rowdy patrons.

She’s gone.

They wrestle over ownership of Taylor’s shoulder until he gives up. Huffs and stops moving which is enough for Ryder not to manhandle him and actually pay attention to his sudden episode.

“Did you see someone?” _Finally,_ only now it’s too late. A useless question.

Taylor’s sigh is so heavy, so damn heavy; he feels the weight of it all the way down into his soul.

“I thought… no, no I guess I didn’t.”

And of course now, when it’s pretty much the definition of too late, Ryder actually starts believing him; looks ready to question it until Taylor passes him by for Cal and Donny.

They were supposed to abandon Katherine and Cadence — not the other way around. But the crowd is still stunned enough for them to take advantage and slip away.

Away and to a service elevator the wolves sniff out from the shadows. An elevator that’s only two doorways from the almost holy taste of fresh air. Humidity or not all it takes it one breath to be a hundred times better than the stale smell of blood and sweat from down below.

“Would’a been convenient to know about this shit getting _in…_” Ryder mumbles — keeps it to himself so as not to spoil the rare moment of joy between the Lowell brothers as they have a proper reunion in mutual freedom.

But Taylor sees it as the gesture it is, knows for a mouthy guy like Nik it took a lot of restraint to keep that to himself, and gives him a gentle elbow of _‘I’m proud of you.’_

“Now we know for next time.”

“Ha, _next time,_” Cal stops grinding his knuckles into Donny’s hair, “well there definitely ain’t gonna be a next time if I have anything to say about it.”

It’s a comment aimed directly at Donny. Lucky for him the boy gets it. “Right there with you, Cal. Thanks for… you know.”

“You’re my Pack and my blood, Don’. Like I was gonna let anything happen to you? We’re in this together.”

_“You sure are.” _

Octavia’s voice pierces through the night; makes it feel just as confining as the cage ring.  


Ryder holds both hands up in surrender and Taylor doesn’t have much of a choice but to join.

Because Octavia’s part of the Pack, too. And the Pack came with.

* * *

There’s no closed doors this time around.

Kristof’s gathered the Pack around a large bonfire behind the hunting cabin. Whatever goes down; it goes down in front of everyone this time.

Octavia shoves Cal and Donny on their knees in front of their Alpha. It hasn’t rained in days but the bayou leaks into the earth, here. Stains their jeans with mud.

Ryder’s held back but has just as little freedom — held still with a preternaturally strong grip on the back of his coat collar.

“No, him too.” Kristof barks. Stops the Pack member from lumping in Taylor with the rest of the onlookers. He obeys without a second thought and pushes him to face whatever wrath is sure to come.

Cal throws a look back his way with a pained expression. “Come on, Kristof, he’s got nothin’ to do with this,” he argues — almost pleads, “hell even Ryder ain’t to blame. I bribed them to take me to Donny.”

The Alpha inhales through flared nostrils; deep and purposeful and _noisy._

“Last I checked a bribe weren’t the same as holdin’ a knife to their throats. They knew what they were doin’.”

There’s a second where Donny looks ready to try and join in but one look from Cal sets him straight. _Let the adults talk._

Taylor throws Nik a look. _Is there anything we can do?_

_No,_ says the look he gets back — the smallest twitch of Ryder’s head back and forth, _just watch and wait._

One raised hand from Octavia and the Pack goes dead quiet. No, not just the Pack. The entire bayou — every cicada, cricket, even the whistles of the willow vines. The entire bayou watches and listens.

“I don’t even know where to start with you Lowell boys,” when Kristof finally speaks it’s heavy and sigh-ful like a parent, “both’a you come to me for help and then both’a you do the exact _opposite _of what I tell you to do. So I’ll just ask this; _am I your Alpha?_”

He knows the answer. The best Taylor can figure is that he asks it to prove a point. It’s a bully tactic. Makes him want to call the man out on it — instead he just hopes there’s more to this _Pack _thing than he understands. For Cal’s sake at the very freakin’ least.

The Lowell brothers answer just a second out of sync.

“Yes, Kristof.”

“Of course.”

“Could’a fooled me!” His shout ripples through the whole Pack in shivers and shuffles.

Cal courts danger and chances a look up.

“I couldn’t just_ take a walk_ and do _nothing,_ Kristof.”

“Oh, is that right?”

“He’s my brother! My kid brother—_my blood brother!_” If there’s more he wants to say he bites it off the tip of his tongue.

Kristof just shakes his head. “No no, see; I hear you Lowell. But what I’m hearin’ ain’t what you’re sayin’. ‘Cuz what I’m hearin’ is that you didn’t trust me to bring him home.”

“That’s not what I said —”

“Isn’t it, though? You came to me because you were — rightfully — worried about Donny.” — _how they can keep talking like Donny isn’t_ right there _is beyond him_ — “And I told you I’d do everything I could. Not just for you, and not just for _my brother._ But for the good’a the Pack.”

Octavia, up until then a stoic guard, curses something in French under her breath and rubs the back of her neck.

Whatever he’s said is enough to rile her — but leaves Taylor feeling like he blinked and missed it. Has him trying to piece together some of the puzzle until Kristof makes it easy on him; continues.

“You boys know family is everything to me — just like it was to your Pop. Weren’t no chance I wasn’t gonna take in my own blood when he passed. You know that. But one thing he always understood — the thing _you boys_ still don’t have drilled in those thick skulls a’yers — is that no matter how important blood and kin may be when it comes to bein’ the Alpha the Pack _has _to come first. It _has _to.”

As the realization settles over him all Taylor can think is that he must have a thick skull, too. Because he definitely doesn’t understand how Kristof — _how Cal and Donny’s uncle_ — can do this; Alpha-schmalpha.

Cal and Donny, Taylor and Ryder, Octavia and the rest of the Pack wait on bated breath for Kristof to continue. Continue justifying his choices, continue by handing down a sentence — does it matter?

It’s for the sake of the brothers Lowell that he hopes the Alpha’s hesitation is, in some part, because he’s at war with duty and family.

Instead Kristof jerks his meaty chin up; fixates on Octavia. “How much damage did they do?”

“Not much from what we could tell,” she sounds almost _relieved,_ “and the few goblin recruiters we managed to corner made it sound like it was someone else who did all the dirty work.”

The weight of the Alpha’s frown lands on Cal all at once. “Puttin’ us in more debt around the community than we already are?”

“Ah — no, actually — if I…?”

Ryder actually _waits for permission_ to speak. As if pigs have taken flight around the world.

Octavia nods. “Go on.”

“The Pack won’t have to worry about that, is all I’m sayin’. There were other forces at work; independent ones. They were holdin’ Smoke’s debtors in _cages,_ Kristof.”

_“Cages?”_ It’s the first time they seem to address Donny — takes him a breath to notice before he nods so hard his head might fall off.

Ryder continues; “Now, be mad at ‘em for all you want, but I think the one thing we can all agree on is that shit ain’t right no matter what you owe.”

“No; no it ain’t,” — _there’s a _‘but’ _coming_ — “but that don’t excuse what you did—what both’a you did. Donny, pup, thinkin’ a’yer kin’s all well and good but good intentions didn’t do much good in a cage now did they?

“And you, Cal… you made yer grave. Time to lie in it.”

Taylor throws Ryder a panicked look. _It’s just a metaphor, right?_ Even so it’s a bad one to use at a time like this. Especially when they both very well _could _have ended up in the grave had they fought the Minotaur anyway!

“Wait —”

He doesn’t need to know the finer details of Pack mentality, though, to know that when Cal stands that’s _not _the thing to do. Makes the gathered wolves stir restlessly; the Alpha and the Beta growling at the act of defiance.

Cal seems to be done baring his neck in silent acceptance; in cut-off explanations he knows won’t be listened to.

“I’ll take both our punishments.”

“Cal _no way_ —” Donny’s voice cracks; Cal uses it to cut him off with a hand to stay him down.

“Don’, shut up.”

Kristof isn’t forcing his nephew back down. He’s not actually going to _listen_… is he?

“I’m listenin’.”

“The way I see it — mercy would be banishing us both from the Pack. I get it Kristof; I do. But he’s just a kid—a pup. He needs a Pack to grow up with, not grow up in spite of.”

“Some might say he needs blood kin more.”

“Yeah well…” Cal rubs the back of his head, “he’ll have you for that, won’t he?”

“Are you tryin t’say you don’t _need _the Pack, Lowell?” Octavia scoffs behind him. Draws his gaze back — where it lands not on her but on Taylor. Where it stays.

“No, but there’s a future generation to think of.”

Donny tries again but knows there’s no use; a half-whispered “please Cal…” punctuated by shaking shoulders and the near-silent ‘boys don’t cry’ sniffles of youth.

There really isn’t any use. But the Alpha shifts on his workman’s boots. Maybe he’s a little glad to have the weight of decision taken off his broad shoulders.

“If that’s yer final decision.”

“It is.”

“Then there ain’t a home for you here with the Jensen Pack, Cal Lowell. And I don’t think I gotta tell you what’ll happen if you find your way here without my say-so.”

Taylor doesn’t know what to think. Tries in earnest — looking around at the Pack — to find someone just as dismayed by this as he is. Someone with the balls to step forward; to say something.

“The same goes for _you _Nik-fuckin’-Ryder, and yer nosy little mortal, too.” The barest hint of remorse is gone when Kristof addresses them. All that rage from the beginning of the night bubbling back with one look and a low growl. “You stay the hell away from me and mine. There ain’t a friend for you here.

“Get out, and take the stray with ya.”

The Alpha’s disgruntled return to the cabin is all anyone needs. The Pack disperses in hushed discussion. Octavia pushes past Cal like he’s — well, like he’s _Nik _— to help Donny up with a far gentler demeanor.

The kid doesn’t waste a second standing to rush into Cal’s waiting arms. They hug with the same ferocity, the same desperation. Reunited hours earlier only to give one last goodbye now.

“It’s not fair.” Only realizes he’s said it aloud when Ryder gives a squeeze of his shoulder.

“No; it isn’t.”

Octavia gives the Lowells as long as she can. And whatever it is — fear or duty — it’s enough to make Donny unlatch himself from Cal without much resistance. The arm she throws around his scrawny shoulders isn’t possessive. Cal even looks a little relieved.

“You got ‘til the moon’s under the trees to pack a bag,” she tells Cal.

He shrugs it off. “Won’t need that long. Just…”

They both look down to Donny rubbing his runny nose with his sleeve.

In a rare flash of emotion, the Beta’s face softens.

“He’ll be taken care of. Go on — get.”

And Cal doesn’t need very long at all. Emerges from his trailer with a single duffel slung over his shoulder and a paper bag clutched in his fist.

Before Ryder can even kick off from the side of the mobile home Cal shoves the bag in his hand. “Your Hunter’s Sage.”

Ryder doesn’t look inside; doesn’t have to… or maybe he just trusts Cal at his word finally.

“Thanks.”

“A deal’s a deal.” His shoulders heave in his sigh as he turns to Taylor; looks ready to maybe give some sort of a goodbye. Only Taylor won’t have it.

“You ready?”

He blinks. “Ready for what?”

“To come back with us —” holding up both hands, “— and don’t even try to say no. I’m sure Garrus wouldn’t mind putting you up.” Well, _no,_ he doesn’t really know at all. But judging by the emptiness of the _Shift _those rooms upstairs don’t exactly have a waiting list.

This is all his fault anyway. Somehow; it just is.

Cal’s protest is stuttered, almost wordless. He looks to Ryder like the fellow loner might back him up but gets only a shrug — nothing to make his case.

“Cab’s waitin’ off the edge’a the property.”

Luckily (though it may be tied to a defeated mood, the more Taylor thinks about it) Cal doesn’t argue. Just nods and follows along with his head held high.

Well until they cross the pergola marking the Pack’s territory — then he tries his best not to let the others know he steals a glance back.

Taylor notices; pretends he doesn’t. Just _‘accidentally’_ bumps Cal’s shoulder with his own to help him put one foot in front of the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And already things are starting to heat up not _quite_ in the way we expect. I'm really excited going forward, guys, because I have a whole different plotline planned than was given to us in _Nightbound._ Can't wait to take you guys on this journey! Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	8. The Tower Upright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryder and Taylor head to local out-of-the-way voodoo vendor Laveau’s for the final ingredient in their protection ritual. While he waits, Taylor gets his fortune told by the real deal—a spirit medium descended from Marie herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **note:** having no background knowledge or education on tarot, tarot readings, or the major/minor arcanas, I did my best to recreate what I believed to be the spread given in the _Nightbound_ premium scene with Luc — even so please take any interpretations beyond what applies to the story with a grain of salt
> 
> **chapter content warnings:** language, recreational drug use, mentions of hearing voices, tarot, spiritualism

Krom’s barely through the threshold before Taylor pounces; hovers around him comically short and buzzing like a gnat.  


“So, what did they say? Do I need to call — I don’t have my phone, shit — _please _tell me I’m not cut from the show.”

Luckily the stone troll looks freaked-out enough to get him to stop and apologize. “Sorry,” he mutters, “I just…”

“No, no I completely understand!” Krom scratches the tips of his head and laughs it off, “I just didn’t want to step on you.”

“He’s not _that _short.” calls Ivy from her booth at the back.

Taylor shrugs it off. “But I appreciate it.”

“Anyway; the company manager’s a little mad no one could reach you but I convinced them to give you a week of sick leave? Even though there was this one weirdly giddy guy…”

They join Ivy on either side. Taylor groans and rubs his hand over his face. 

“That would be Antoni. He doesn’t matter. I _really _appreciate you doing this for me, Krom.”

“It’s no trouble!” And the troll’s voice is so filled with sincerity he has no trouble believing it. 

“That’s our darling Krom.” Garrus returns behind the bar with his tray of collected dirty steins and beer glasses. “He’s like an angel; always helping others. You’ve got nothing to prove sweetheart — you know that.”

Ivy answers Taylor’s question before he even has the chance to ask it; “Stone trolls have a bit of a rep’ around here. You saw their natural element at Persephone.”

“Bodyguards, hired muscle, and the like.” Krom agrees; pointedly trying to keep his voice his usual baritone despite Garrus’ casual compliments. 

“So you’re a pacifist?”

“In the flesh — so to speak.”

There’s a _thud _from behind and all eyes turn to see a stack of crates stumbling out from behind the back room curtain. Not hovering in midair as Taylor originally thought but carried by a very red-faced Cal. Who still forces on a smile through his gritted teeth at Garrus.

“Where… _where?_”

The fae gestures with a bony finger. “Just leave ‘em behind here. I’ll unpack before the evening rush.”

He slams them down before Taylor can even try to offer help — grumbles under his breath about something he can’t quite catch but he knows Cal’s grateful to Garrus for giving him a place to stay. He must be paying off the stupor he drank himself into following their return as less-than-triumphant heroes. 

“I should start taking in strays more often — pun not intended,” Garrus teases but all in good humor; especially when he slides a cool glass of water for Cal to chug when his hands are free, “someone to do the heavy lifting around here and all that.”

Krom shifts in his seat. Something so subtle only the two beside him notice it. But Ivy doesn’t give him the chance to let it go and kicks his rock of a leg with her heels. 

“I — I could help with whatever you need, Garrus?” Even though it comes out as more of a question than anything. 

The look the two exchange is strange but fond. Garrus’ eyes softening under the twinkling lights. Maybe he regrets what he said — or the implications behind it. 

“But if you’re laboring around here then what would I have to look at for inspiration?”

Not the smoothest save, in Taylor’s opinion. But Krom acts like it’s the highest form of praise and brushes the compliment off with a wave. 

_“Are they always like this?”_ Taylor whispers to Ivy. The revenant just sighs and nods. A long-suffering struggle on her end no doubt.

Heavy footfalls on metal steps herald Ryder’s arrival from the apartments above. He looks around and beelines towards Taylor in a way that almost has him jumping and hiding. 

“You, me; let’s go.”

“That’s not how you ask a man out on a date, Nik.” chides Ivy as she pushes the mortals together. 

“What?” He blinks; shakes himself out of whatever thoughts compelled him to seek Taylor out. “Wh — shut up, Iv’.”

“Right,” she winks, “he’ll go with you anyway. It’s part of your brutish charm.”

_“Shut up, Iv’.”_ Taylor parrots with a glare. “Is the spell finally ready?”

Not that he’s not _enjoying _his time at the _Shift._ And following the disaster that was the Bayou and Persephone he’s not exactly eager to go into other supernatural spaces any time soon. 

But he’s never been one to stay cooped up for long.

Ryder huffs. “Not quite. Damn toad wart expired. Luckily though there’s a shop down the road that carries simple ingredients — so put away that grin Iv’. I’m done owin’ you for now.”

Probably a good thing judging by the low witchy cackle she gives instead.

“So let’s get goin’, hustle hustle.” 

“But wait — is it safe?” Taylor follows anyway. Keeping at the Nighthunter’s heels is practically his new job. “You didn’t even want me leaving for the theater.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“With your hallelujah arrows, right?”

“_Holy light arrows,_ Rook. You sound like an idiot when you say that.”

“Well now I’ll keep doing it to piss you off.”

“‘Course, because why would you do anything else?”

Their bickering continues out onto the ruins of another day of _Mardi Gras_ fun. At least some things never lose a sense of normalcy.

* * *

It’s a small shop — one of those _‘blink and you’ll miss it’_ types. The shop name _LAVEAU’s_ is hand-painted above a doorway embellished with the classic purple, green, and golden plastic beads of the season’s parties. 

Taylor stops Ryder before he opens the door. “_‘Laveau’s’_ like…?”

“Read the signs, Rook.”

There they are clear as day; painted by the same hand as the top sign but with an artist’s frustration behind every black-painted stroke. One on the door declaring _‘Yes, like Marie herself’_ and then one blue-tacked beneath it; _‘Not Affiliated with Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo.’ _

“Oh. Got it.”

While the outside may lack the flair and panache that attracts the usual tourist crowds the inside is a whole other looking glass. Probably looks the way it does to differentiate between those who want fake dolls to poke with pins and those who want a real hex to mess with.

_God, he’s talking about _real hexes. _When had this become his life?_

Together they weave through the cluttered mess of uneven shelves and their uneven products. Books stacked flat where they’d fallen over at some point and left that way with little concern. A bundle of glass-looking orbs balancing precariously without cradle to keep them from rolling off the edge. A plant hanger in the middle of the room holds a pile of sage sticks just _there._ At second glance some look a little used. 

The back ‘counter’ isn’t even that. It’s a folding table with a frayed tablecloth unevenly distributed atop and an old and rusting register in the corner. 

First Taylor sees the joint resting in an ash tray made out of a mason jar lid. Only when it’s picked up and placed between two pink lips does he realize the man sitting kiddie-corner to the till. 

“Welcome, wayward souls, to another side of the witch you know,” he recites as if from a script; monotone — doing everything he can to dissuade those who might darken his doorstep, “everything you see is one hundred percent bona fide authentic to the craft. Don’t do the rhyme if you can’t do the wiccan time.”

Ryder stops abruptly. Arms folded and a raised eyebrow looking over the pile of scattered tarot cards strewn across the table. That which holds the proprietor’s attention more than customers. 

Unbidden he reaches out and plucks a card at random. Turns it over to stare at glittering golden words _‘The Emperor’_ upside-down. 

There’s no way the shop owner should know what card was grabbed — not like he can see though the matte black backing — but he gives a low and throaty chuckle. Lets smoke billow in a thin stream around the same lips now curled in a smirk.

“You always picked predictably, Ryder.”

Ryder who frisbees the card back onto the table carelessly. “I’m not still unconvinced you don’t set me up every time, Luc.”

“For all the shit you see…”

“I’ll always be skeptical of some damn cards, yeah. What else is new?”

“Good question.”

Luc finally drags his gaze up and away from his reading. Gives Ryder an easy and lazy smile that might possibly be the friendliest greeting to the Nighthunter Taylor’s seen so far. Had he not joined Ivy in teasing Krom only a short while ago he might have run himself ragged trying to understand the electric connection he’s witness to.

There’s definitely a history here.

Ryder sighs; knows Luc isn’t going to answer him until he answers himself. “The usual, man. Another day another job. Not much changes for me.”

“That’s not what I hear. In fact — I hear quite the opposite.”

“Sure those aren’t just voices from a bad trip?”

Luc laughs and kicks himself up to balance on the back two legs of his chair. Teeters dangerously close to falling backwards. “Could be, brother, could be. But I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the spiritual radio this time. Everyone who’s anyone heard tell of a gutsy break-in among the city’s most elite. And all the chaos that followed.”

Ryder’s teeth grind together; his brow gives an almost imperceptible twitch. 

“What did I tell you about listenin’ to the rumor mill, Luc?”

“Are they _wrong?_”

Not giving an answer is answer enough. Makes Luc give a haughty grin so wide Taylor likens him to a shark. 

“I said what I said; another day, another job. It got me a rare ingredient I needed. I figured I could get the rest from your sorry ass if I could get you to look away from that damn deck long enough to ring me up.”

Luc makes everything look easy; from getting on Ryder’s bad side to letting his chair fall forward so he can stand. Like he’s not moving through air and gravity but dancing through deep watery depths.

But there’s a defensive edge to his voice — the first emotion beyond amusement — as he starts to gather up his cards. 

“I’ll have you know I’m fond of this deck in particular. They were given to me as an apology from someone who _never _apologizes.”

“Oh yeah, what for?” Judging by Ryder’s tone, though, he already knows.

Still he lets Luc’s bright hazel eyes bore into his soul. 

“Skippin’ out come dawn without so much as an _adieu._”

Taylor laughs because, well, it’s funny? Only to quickly realize it’s not the right thing to be doing when he catches the strange look Ryder throws back at him; halfway and in profile — like he stops himself before he can make it a whole confrontation. 

The teasing’s gone, now. “Yeah — listen, any chance I still have that standing credit here? I need frog warts and a few other things for a protection spell.”

“Ain’t like you to run around on an empty wallet.”

“Yeah, well… this job ain’t just _another._”

And as _‘Another Job’_ Taylor kind of takes offense to it. 

Luc jerks his head towards a doorway shrouded with a curtain of thick wooden beads and the occasional bird feather. “You know where the stores are, _cher._ Just consider ya’self lucky _Mardi Gras_ is a prosperous time for us all.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Luca. And if it makes you feel better the life you’re savin’ ain’t even mine.” 

Taylor’s a step behind his heels when Ryder turns and keeps him at bay with a palm to his chest. His heartbeat stutters; spandex yielding to the firm press, but Ryder says nothing of it.

“Stay up here.”

Taylor scoffs. “Why? I’m not going to accidentally cast a spell or anything.”

“Maybe not, but the last thing I need is you gettin’ clumsy on the wrong object and fuckin’ us both even deeper.”

While he fumbles for a retort worthy of the witty comeback, though, Ryder makes his escape. Calls back; “don’t touch anything, don’t look at anything — and don’t let him suck you up in that damn deck!” before he’s gone in a clatter of beads.

They both know he’s not going to listen — he only says it so he can tell Taylor off when something inevitably happens. That seems to be how they function. Not that he plans on flailing his arms and messing with the first thing he hits, but…

“Since you ain’t dead I’m gonna assume Ryder’s not takin’ on the role’a teacher of the _nighthunting _arts.”

Snaps Taylor’s attention back to Luc; back in his chair and shuffling the deck in long and ring-adorned fingers. 

“No.” 

“Good. You might just stay alive then.”

“Apparently that’s a hard thing to do so, sure.”

Luc gestures to the chair across from him. It’s an offer, not a demand, but out of spite for Ryder’s twenty different moods — _follow me, don’t follow me, around and around again_ — he takes it up. Watches Luc shuffle and reshuffle with naught but the soft collision of the cards as music.

When he realizes Ryder’s going to take his time, he figures the best way to start might be an introduction.

“I’m —”

“Pick a few cards for me, Taylor.”

He hadn’t even realized the man had started a spread; each card turned down and black as the void in a soft arc reaching out to him across the table.

Luc is courteous enough not to blow smoke in his face. Sits back slightly hunched and letting his focus flicker between Taylor and the cards. Like both are equally likely to speak to him in the silence.

“It’s probably useless asking how you knew my name, huh?”

“Smart boy. Sometimes they whisper an’ sometimes they scream, but I gotta say it’s been a good long while since I heard the cards call out the way they do to you, Taylor Hunter.

“So help me out here. Pick a few and let them show us why they’re so damn chatty.”

He wants to point out that the only _chatty _one around is Luca himself, but again that’s one of those useless things he’s finally starting to come to terms with. Knows another useless thing would be to ask why he can’t hear anything… but that’s because _hearing _is the only word he can think to describe it too.

They’re cards — just plain tarot cards. But like inky tendrils they’re reaching out to him across the table on another plane of reality. One where they have soft black fingers that wrap around his wrists and bring his hands to hover over them. Like safety.

_Ryder said…_ “Well, Ryder said…”

The look Luc gives him cuts him off. _Yeah, that was a bit of a stretch, wasn’t it?_

He points at random; watches Luc pull a card out without flipping it over. Keeps going until a curt nod cuts him off and nine rectangles of shadow form a square across from him.

“This ain’t your average reading,” that much being obvious by the reverent way the shopkeep looks down at his selection, “and I ain’t your average reader. You’re not from around here.”

“Are you asking?”

“No. But I figure that means you did what all newcomers do — got yourself one of those back room phony shows at the House of Voodoo.”

He wants to say he hasn’t only for how ashamed Luc’s tone makes him feel about it. But yeah — yeah he had. Doesn’t remember much about the event itself but knows somewhere buried in the clutter of his desk back at his place there’s a piece of paper from whatever the alleged ‘psychic’ had him ask.

Luc nods slowly. “Mmhm. Sometimes — ‘bout as oft’n as pigs fly — the cards they play don’t listen and give out an ounce of truth. Nothing life-changing, but a slip enough to tempt the handler into believing.

“You won’t get none’a that here. Whatever’s shown when I flip these babies around has been, is, or will be whether you know it or not. But they only tell as much of a tale as you’re ready to hear.”

The unasked question: _are you ready to hear it?_ And Taylor isn’t sure he knows how to answer. 

He knows a _lot _about himself; inside and out. Has lived through too much and shoved too much inside for too long not to. It’s something he’s proud of. A lot of people spend their lives with no understanding of their inner self but he’s never had that problem.

But there’s a difference between _knowing _it and seeing… whatever these cards might show him.

_What if what he knows isn’t what they say? _

Life would be easier if Ryder took that opportune moment to reappear and save him the trouble of having to make the choice.

But life isn’t easy. 

He nods — but before Luc can flip over the first card he reaches out and stops him.

“I’m not, like, sealing a deal with a demon or something, am I?” Judging by the _look _he gets he _really _shouldn’t have asked.

“Do I look like a demon?”

“I don’t know what demons look like.” He knows it’s a lie but says it anyway; can think only of that skeletal face sneering at him under the moonlight.

Luckily it’s not enough to deter the shopkeep who just bats Taylor’s hand away. “Judgin’ by your ghostly pallor I’m gonna call your fib on that one. But if it eases ya mind; no. No deals here. I get as much outta this as you do.”

Well that’s okay then, isn’t it?

Luc flips the first card over and has himself a little laugh. And why wouldn’t he — The Fool isn’t just an apt card but an apt description. 

Taylor’s humor is, however, short-lived. “Seriously?” 

“You drew the card. Only one to blame is you.”

“So I’m gonna be even more of a joke in my future or something?”

Luc shakes his head; spreads his fingers as far as they’ll go as the shadow of his palm casts over the center card. “This ain’t your future, but your _self._ This is you, Mister Hunter.”

“A fool.”

“A man of innocence,” comes the quick correction, “and oftentimes a free spirit. You do your own thing; march to your own drum. Ev’ry Sally and Joe likes to laugh at the Fool but he’s got his eyes set on the horizon and that’s worth admirin’. So don’t sell him — or ya’self — short.”

_Innocent_ — not quite. But the rest Taylor doesn’t disagree with. Seems he knows himself as well as he thought. 

Luc’s painted nail traces along a jagged line on the image. “But see here; the Fool stands at the cliff’s edge. He’s a card so it ain’t in his nature to look anywhere but where he’s told but you’re not a card, are ya?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you lookin’ forward at the horizon or down into that abyss,” — he flips over another card before Taylor can answer — “or maybe you see the Tower on the other side.”

The Tower card is actually at the Fool’s back but he’s learned enough now not to question the metaphors.

“All that love for life might come at a cost. An’ hey — maybe it’s one you’re willin’ to pay. I don’t judge.”

No matter how hard he looks he knows he isn’t going to see the same thing as his reader. But… “I’m gonna need you to be a little less cryptic and a little more straightforward.”

“This ain’t science. Everything’s up for interpretation when the cards are involved.”

“Okay so _interpret _what exactly you mean by a cost. What _cost?_”

His rings drum on the plastic surface slowly before Luc clicks his tongue. “Looks to me like you’ve been through some shit lately. Life-changin’ shit — shit that skips right over dippin’ a toe into destiny and pushes you right in the deep end tied to an anchor — or ten.”

Finally Luc looks back up but his gaze is guarded; carefully and excellently so. He can’t get a thing out of just a look.

“I could have told you that.” He mutters a defensive reply. “A couple of days ago everything was fine and then my best friend’s in a coma, I find out the shit I’ve been hallucinating my whole life is _real,_ and on top of it some big scary Ugly wants my skinny ass for a meal.”

“That explains our friend Ryder, then.” Luc almost seems to peek at the row’s last hidden card. When he turns the Eight of Cups over the hum he hums reminds Taylor of endless weeks of therapists and their noncommittal noises failing to cover the scratching of pen on paper. “And it’s all a helluva lot, I bet.”

It’s a bit hard to play off the full-body adjustment to hide his discomfort but Taylor likes to think he pulls it off pretty well. 

“Understatement of the century.”

“Makes a world ‘a sense. You’ve tried gettin’ away from it.”

“Actually I haven’t really had the time.”

Only Luc disagrees; shakes his head curtly and offers the Cups to Taylor like it’s written on the surface in plain sight. “The cards ain’t just talkin’ ‘round the physical. Sometimes we do all the runnin’ in our minds and we don’t even know it. It could be as simple as connecting new things in ya life to old ones and convincing ya’self they’re the same; whether they are or not.”

Oh, there it is — on the surface and in plain sight. Struggling for Cal and Donny. Taking blame for what happened (not that he’d tell Cal, he’s got enough to feel bad over). Jumping down Krom’s throat about the theater company.

“Don’t beat ya’self up too bad,” continues Luc in a way that makes him freeze in the sudden fear that he can read thoughts as well as tarot cards, “a little escapism is good for the soul. The hard part’s when you gotta come back to reality an’ doin’ it without a fight.”

Taylor offers the card back and watches it settle home beside the Fool. The same Fool he’s now a little reluctant to identify with so quickly. “Yeah. I guess.”

“Got it — now cut the ramblin’; you’re talkin’ over the cards.”

Only hasn’t _he _been the one doing all the talking? Arguing won’t help but that little nugget of petulance persists.

This time Luc reveals three cards one after the other. Makes sure to let each one rest face-up before moving on. Letting them breathe. Letting them _speak._

Strength. The Hermit. The Two of Swords. The first two facing Taylor this time as if in judgment. No; they haven’t drawn that card just yet.

He realizes he’s waiting on bated breath when his lungs start to burn and beg for fresh air. Why is he so quiet all of a sudden?

“Tell me more about those _hallucinations _ya mentioned, Taylor.”

That’s not where he was expecting that to go at all; catches him off guard. “Sorry?”

“Don’t be,” but the other man sounds distant; lost in his thoughts, “jus’ tell me. Said you been seein’ things _‘your whole life’_ right?”

“Yeah. But I’d really rather not, uh, go into…” Wasn’t his life story down on the cards? It was hard enough explaining everything to Kristin — and they knew things about one another bound to secrecy by the sanctity of roommate-dom. So he tries to keep it all in the realm of the reading; “I mean I know what they are now. I was seeing glamours. Like through them — without a charm or spell or whatever. I dunno, Nik can explain it better.”

When Luc doesn’t give the same shocked jaw-drop the trio at the _Shift _had he entertains the brief hope that the same talent runs through the psychic’s veins. But that’s dashed when he catches sight of the unconscious way Luc grabs onto one of the numerous stone pendants draped over his neck — the way he thumbs over the polished surface and tugs on the leather cord. 

It’s not the _same _one Ryder has but pretty damn close; close enough to assume his glamour-charm used to have a home in this very shop.

“That kind-a inner sight’s awful rare.” He practically mumbles. 

“Yeah, it’s been mentioned.”

“Not _unheard of,_ mind you. Not in things that ain’t entirely mortal by blood and bone. When you draw Strength in reverse it’s not the opposite like you’d think; it ain’t sayin’ you _lack _strength. 

“Think of it more like the meanin’ is just turned about. Upright’s outside and the other is inside.”

“So it’s inner strength.” He can get behind that.

“Or lack of it.”

_I’m fucking sorry?_ “Who—what-now?”

“This row,” he gestures a little too grandly for the subject matter, “is your past, present, and future. I told you the cards were screamin’ — and they still are — but not this one,” — _not Strength_ — “this’un’s more of a whisper. And it makes sense given that you called ‘em _‘hallucinations.’_”

“And an explanation for us ‘card’-of-hearing?”

Luc bites his tongue — really and without metaphor; wince and all. Grabs a stray bit of crumpled receipt from god-knows when his last sale was and scribbles on it in blocky letters.

_“‘Note to self,’”_ he enunciates his writing harshly, _“‘add sign to shop:_ ‘Owner Has the Right to Refuse Service on Account of Shitty Fucking Puns.’_”_

The glare that follows tells Taylor it won’t be long before that sign has his name added to avoid confusion. 

_No regrets. None at all._

Puns aside, though? The level eye he gets across the cards takes a turn for the serious. 

“I think it tells me a lot more than you’re ready to share. About ya life before this; about the things you done to make the pain go away. Some of us may be human but that don’t mean we ain’t still animals. And animals lash out when they’re scared.”

He’s right. It’s a lot more than Taylor’s ready to share. Makes him want to scramble the deck — flip the table on its end. And maybe the old version of him, the version in those cards, might have. 

In his silence Luc gets the answer — “moving on…” he almost sing-songs — lets his fingertips dance on the card showing the present: the Hermit.

Which Taylor tries not to take personally. _Who is there to be angry at other than himself? _

“So since that one’s reversed too that means… what, that I’m a hermit on the inside?”

“I can see how you’d think that,” laughs Luc, “but not quite. How about we let the professional do his profession?”

Taylor gestures. The professional carries on. “It ain’t easy comin’ into this life so late. ‘Specially when you end up seein’ all the bad before a lick’a good comes your way. But you’re drownin’ in it — that’s what the Hermit’s tellin’ us. No time to ruminate?”

He scoffs. “Something like that.”

“Well _make time._ Lest it all starts crashin’ down and you get the proverbial water in ya lungs.”

“It’s not by _choice._ There’s things after me and —”

“And excuses ain’t gonna keep you afloat.” The man reaches over faster than Taylor can move back; actually _flicks _his forehead dead center.

“Ow!” He swats Luc’s hand away. 

“It ain’t me sayin’ this, Hunter. It’s _them,_” he gestures to the cards, “and they know more about this world than either of us could learn in a hundred lifetimes. Take ya damn time and really work out how you feel. Else you won’t be able to face this here future with a clear head.”

Luckily Taylor doesn’t have to ask; isn’t certain he’d be able to as he looks at the Two of Swords card and feels sweat start to bead at his temples. 

Playing with tarot cards is all fun and games when you don’t believe. Even when you do — a measure of healthy skepticism is good for the soul. But with everything he’s seen; been told? 

Who would willingly ask for their future foretold after that?

“I think we can skip to the next cards.”

“Oho, this don’t work like that.”

“Why,” doing his best to keep his voice level, “it’s my reading, right? I don’t want to know.”

“Sucks to be you, then. You draw; you listen. That’s how all true readin’s go.” Luc leans back on the creaky chair and lets the Swords card flip and twirl between his fingers. 

He could make it easy on them both; stop arguing and just get up and leave the reading unfinished. Find Ryder in the back and apologize for doing what he said not to do — _again_ — and book it out of there right quick.

But he doesn’t.

“Now I get why Nik said not to do this.”

“Ha — well, hindsight ain’t much use in a house of foresight baby. So listen; an’ listen well.

“In proper tarot some cards are real close in meanin’. That’s where the spread comes in — the order, the intent; not to mention the cards all ‘round it. The Swords in your future point to some hard fuckin’ choices. And if ya keep on the path ya’re on you won’t be makin’ ‘em with all your marbles.

“I ain’t talkin’ about decisions that can be made _for _you, neither. When it comes down to it you’re likely to find ya’self alone — not only in the act a’ choosin’ but in dealin’ with the consequences.”

“So what kind of choices? What do the cards scream about _that?_”

“They don’t —” he tosses the card back down and it’s probably not a coincidence that it slides magically askew back in the reading’s place, “— on account of all the changes between now and when that time comes.

“The cards give truths where mortals lie; hope where the world pushes despair. But at the end’a everythin’ they’re just cards — bound by the same circumstances as you or I.”

It’s probably meant to be poignant; something that might be sold on a re-purposed wooden palette hand-painted and polished. In a shop similar to this — right between the mismatched crystal balls and Ryder’s coveted frog warts.

But all Taylor can think is; “Well that’s absolutely useless to me beyond freaking me out.”

Luc gives another one of his gap-toothed grins — _“C’est la vie, mon petit,”_ — and doesn’t wait for permission or argument to reveal another card.

“If it makes ya feel any better —”

“Doubtful at this point.”

“— Fair. But they won’t leave ya hangin’. Unless the Hanged Man is drawn, a’course. Naw, rest easy knowin’ you won’t be goin’ the journey alone.”

He frowns; confused. “But you just said —”

“Hush. All the best journeys are made with friends. Though I… I ain’t sure I’d call the Nine a’Wands a _friend…_” 

Curiosity replaced by twists and turns of his bewildered head; Luc bites down on his thumb nail and scrutinizes the seventh draw. “In fact, I’d call whomever this bad draw represents —”

“Ryder!”

The Nighthunter emerges in a wave of beads carrying a pearly sphere the size of his head tucked in the crook of his arm. At the same time Taylor jumps — a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar — and swears when his knee bangs under the table. 

Luc doesn’t notice — or doesn’t care; still fixated on the black-and-gold design in front of him. Mutters _“could be him, but…”_ under his breath so low that no one catches it.

Taylor fumbles for an explanation — which is a pretty stupid move seeing as he was ready to just come clean only a minute ago — but doesn’t get the chance. Though he _would _like to state that it probably would have been an extremely convincing and well-versed one had Ryder not just held up a hand and rolled his eyes.

“I figured you’d ignore me. Already took out my anger with a mortar and pestle in the back.”

Well he’s a little offended now. “I wasn’t blatantly disobeying you or anything,” then; “I’m a grown adult and can make my own choices.”

And doesn’t _that _karma come around to bite him in the ass pretty damn fast. He makes a great effort not to look at what is no doubt a haughty look of _‘I told you so.’ _

“Yeah yeah, cry me a river.”

He props the sphere on a large cushion nearby to keep it from rolling and drags the last free seat over into Taylor’s personal bubble. Already looking at the spread like he, too, can hear these alleged screams from the deck. “So, Luc? Any tell on whether or not I’m gonna get paid for this gig?”

“Wha — _hey!_”

Taylor knows he doesn’t hit Nik’s arm _that _hard but the offended look he gets back is more than enough. 

“_Ouch._ That hurt.”

“If _that _hurt I need a new bodyguard.”

“Don’t tempt me to pawn you off.”

“Please do.”

A tinny _click _draws their focus away from each other and to Luc’s newly lighted blunt. No longer puzzled by the cards — his eyes are brighter; they shine with understanding.

“Nevermind. I get it, now.”

“Get what?” barks Nik a little too defensively.

“Didn’ I jus’ tell ya not to mind it?” 

Taylor cuts Nik off before he can continue arguing. They’ve been here too long already. “If we can’t leave until this is finished — can you finish?” 

Two cards remain to be revealed. The fortune teller takes his sweet time with a few puffs before agreeing, if reluctantly. Maybe he just doesn’t like an audience? 

All sense of the _mysterium _is gone. Luc flips the cards one at a time with one hand while sucking in his joint with the other.

The Five of Swords. The Wheel of Fortune.

It’s _totally _the secondhand high that makes the golden wheel glitter and seem to turn before their eyes. Totally. 

He braces himself for another round of cryptic semi-explanations. Only they don’t come. Luc’s eyelids droop heavy — almost closed. And judging by Nik’s frown that’s not a normal part of the reading.

“Luca? Hey —” — he snaps in front of the man’s face — “— Laveau!”

He doesn’t quite jerk out of his momentary trance; eyelids flutter as if awakening from a dream. 

“Maybe you had a point, Hunter,” after a throaty cough, “maybe it’s best this go unfinished.”

“What seriously? After all that earlier shit?” He balks. Beside him Ryder grabs the Swords and looks it over back to front.

“You’ve never left a reading hanging. What gives?”

“He’s still new to the life. I think he’s had enough bad news for today.”

Taylor practically snatches the card from Nik. But it seems just as reluctant to give up its secrets to him, too. Makes him toss it back down in frustration.

“Just tell me,” even he can’t believe what he’s saying, “since I dunno if it’s worse to know or to guess.”

“Trust me. The worst one’s knowin’.”

“I’ll take that as you’ve never encountered crippling anxiety, then.”

In rare sympathetic form Ryder reaches out and rests a hand on Luc’s exposed forearm. They aren’t hiding behind quips or dancing words any longer; you could see the remnants of intimacy between them from space.

“Luc — come on. For my sake, too.”

The doubt doesn’t ease off from the fortune teller’s brow. In fact it looks deeper than ever before. Finally he yields. “All right — but don’t blame me or the cards. We’re jus’ messengers after all.”

No longer in need of a familiar touch Luc shakes the hand off. Mutters something unintelligible under his breath and takes another few puffs to calm himself down before he covers the Five of Swords like he can’t do the reading while looking at it.

“There’s more than difficult choices ahead for you — and for those what end up around you. A fight looms —” he turns the Swords card on its back atop the revealed Wheel of Fortune, “— on a bigger horizon than that’a the _Vieux Carre._ Might even be one bigger than this world of ours.

“Not so much a _fight _as a battle; a _war._ Turnin’ and churnin’ at the banks of the river and out into the ocean. Ready to flood the whole damn city — every corner of the earth. And it’ll keep ragin’ and screamin’ with every body what falls to it.”

Ryder goes still as stone beside him. Taylor finds himself revisiting the notion of it being better _not _knowing.

“What does any of that have to do with me?”

“You, Mister Hunter — you’re smack dab in the middle of it. More’n that… you _belong _there.”

Apologies. Sympathy. Condolences. Luc can’t seem to settle on one way to look at Taylor so instead he just focuses on packing his deck back up. He isn’t as careful this time around — like he’s angry at the cards and what they had to say; to scream. Two separate entities working off of one another but, at the very least, both unhappy with the outcome.

“I’ll get a box for that crystal ball — the warts are yours but I’ll need interest on that relic.” He can’t get away from the pair fast enough. Shuffles the tarot deck in his hands as he goes. 

He wants to be surprised that Nik doesn’t follow; doesn’t go to check on someone he obviously has a past and present connection with. But in the goody bag of his emotions he just keeps pulling out resignation — even when he cheats and peeks inside. 

That’s all there is. All he can feel. 

Where’s that opportunity for escapism the cards had mentioned earlier? He could use a bit of that at the moment.

Doesn’t know when exactly Nik started trying to comfort him; hand on his upper back, the gentle back-and-forth of his thumb. Taylor’s not a big fan of touch but that seems to be how Ryder connects to the world; through the physical.

And oddly it’s working. The comfort thing.

“You okay?”

_He’ll sass such a ridiculous question later._ “Uh, honestly I don’t really know _what _I am right now.”

Ryder’s face is unusually close when Taylor looks his way. The barest flicker — a crack in the bravado. Nik is _worried _for him.

“That can happen after Luc’s readings. You think I warned ya away to keep you from somethin’ fun? Knowin’ his connection with the spirit world makes it all really…” 

He struggles for the right word. Weird, coming from him. 

_“‘Real?’”_ offers Taylor, and gets him a nod. 

“Yeah, really real.”

Noises of shuffled boxes and Luc’s grunts draw them out of Taylor’s personal space and back to the world around them. Up near the back curtain Luc gently eases the crystal ball into a wooden box. 

“So, question.”

“Yeah Rook?”

“What do we do now?” _Because if turning tail and running like a shameless coward away from this war is an option, he’s taking it._

“We keep on going,” Nik answers, “We get back to the _Shift _and finish up this blasted protection spell and then we dive into findin’ your attacker and punch a bunch’a holy light holes in it’s ugly-ass face.”

This time when he reaches into the bag of emotions, luck gives him a break and lets him pull out the barest ghost of a smile. 

“Man, it _is _ugly. Like — _fugly _ugly.”

Ryder’s smile is just as small — but no less sincere — than his.

“It damn sure is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm going a little off the posting schedule, but since I'm more than caught up with chapters written and ready to be posted I thought I'd give a little treat this week. So enjoy Chapter 8 today and look forward to Chapter 9 on Wednesday!
> 
> As always I'd love to know your thoughts on this series! Thanks guys!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	9. A Puzzle with No Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The protection spell is cast, which means the time has come to identify their enemy. Easier said than done. Things get a little complicated when henchmen arrive with their eyes set on Cadence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** ritual practice, self-depreciation, guns/firearms, mobsters

He’s ready to flinch away when Ryder presses the still-smoking charred end to the back of his hand — but doesn’t need to. The tightly-wound bundle of herbs is warm but doesn’t burn. Just leaves smeared black ash in its wake.

“Not to break your concentration or anything…”

“Then don’t.”

“Too late. This stuff isn’t _permanent,_ is it? Like, it’ll come off?” All he can think is how _so not happy_ the company director will be if he shows up to rehearsal with occult symbols twirling up his arms. Especially when the Oberon costume is pretty much sans shirt.

Ryder doesn’t stop as he carefully traces the symbols from Ivy’s borrowed tome. “And here I was thinkin’ you _wanted _to be protected.”

_He does. _“I do! I just —”

“Stop being an asshole, Ryder. Once the spell is complete it’ll basically act like a magical cloak. The smudge ash is just a conduit. You’ll be fine.”

Katherine leans over Taylor’s shoulder; watches with the curiosity of someone who doesn’t have anything better to do. And since she explained how, once she and Cadence were sure they were off the tail of Persephone’s — _and Lady Smoke’s_ — henchmen, she was back on standby until the vampire had use of her again? She really _doesn’t._

“Good to know.” Taylor sighs in relief; lets Ryder keep drawing.

He stops just below the crook of Taylor’s elbow and switches to the next arm. Taylor’s trying his best _not _to squirm but he can’t help it — this shit tickles! Makes him yank his arm to the side involuntarily. 

Ryder just grunts, yanks, and wipes away the mistake with a bit of spit on the pad of his thumb. 

“Ew.”

“Get over it.”

There’s a quick rap of knuckles on the open front door. Of the four apartments only two are in use so there’s not much worry about who it is.

Ryder pulls back and takes Taylor’s wrists in his. Inspects his work with gentle turns and doubled-back looks at the instructions in the book. Cal appears with a brief crinkle of his sensitive nose but smiles and waves nevertheless. Only when Taylor _tries _to wave back Nik grunts and holds his arm tighter.

“How goes it?” Cal takes up the empty armchair opposite them. Looks to Taylor like he knows what’s going on and isn’t that a laugh.

“Good, I think?” He leaves his words hanging in the hopes that Nik might take up the lead but… not exactly. “Sure, we’ll go with good.”

The Nighthunter tosses the half-burnt bundle into a silver dish. “That Hunter’s Sage was good shit, Lowell.”

“Does that mean it’s helping?”

He picks up the book and settles it in his lap; twirls a stone pendant in his fingers as he reads. “Time to find out.”

The fact that Katherine _steps back_ doesn’t settle well in Taylor’s stomach. Even the smile she offers is only halfway reassuring. So instead he looks to the werewolf for comfort — and Cal holds his gaze like he’s holding Taylor’s hand to help him through it. 

The air is thick with the lingering smell of charred herbs. Even with the windows open the muggy Southern evening makes the sweat on the back of his neck cling to him. Coats him tacky and unsure. 

The fact that Ryder and Katherine can still wear their leather gear without complaint is either a serious power move or just plain supernatural. Both are viable options at this point.

Ryder wraps the pendant’s leather cord in his fist and holds it aloft; dips the chipped yellow stone into a glass bowl still foaming at the mouth with all the ingredients they’d procured from Luc’s back rooms. It comes out dripping with the pearly brew — not even a drop wasted as it swings wide and stops over Taylor’s marked arms.

Despite the fact that Taylor himself had taken the ingredients off of the dutch oven on the nearby stove each drop is cold as ice as it falls onto the runes — seeps into his skin, his bones and chills him all the way down to the marrow.

_“Nos rejecto nostro quod mortale est a servis suis ut altius virtute. Ubi autem non est datum quaerere Sanctuarii. Itaque accepimus ipsis facti ignara cladis virtutes invocare. Postulamus illorum tutela…”_†

No one dares interrupt the Latin curling on Ryder’s tongue. Not just for the sake of the spell — there’s a beauty to his careful incantation that holds them captive listeners. Willing, but captive. 

No way the small surface of the stone should hold as much of the potion as it seems to. Even when it hangs closer to his eyes Taylor can’t see a porous surface or hole to drip from. But now probably isn’t the time to question the mechanics of magic.

Careful not to miss a word Ryder’s finger traces underneath the hand-written invocation. _“Postulamus ab oculis eorum. Hoc tu arcebis auferat sua mala, et a dolore suo. Praesidio cute quod tactus de turpi, ex quo sanguis malus est animus a nequitia sua.”_

The thought _I’m going to get through my first spell without freaking out _isn’t even fully formed when it becomes a lie. 

When a strange tingling besets across the surface of the runes. Pinpricks of tiny needles like his arms have fallen asleep but only where the ash is drawn.

It’s probably just the spell. It’s definitely just the spell. _It’s just the spell, right?_

Only he’s a tingled breath away from asking when Ryder — like he’s _sensed _Taylor’s interruption — holds up a finger.

_“Et hoc usque dum facinus patratur malum exitum.”_

It stops in sync with Ryder’s chant. With the droplets from the stone which Ryder tosses aside; no longer of use. 

Only he keeps reading — doesn’t give indication good or bad whether the spell worked or not. 

Thankfully Taylor isn’t the only impatient one. Not when Cal not-so-subtly coughs into his fist.

“So is that it? Did it work?”

_Please, please say it worked. _

Katherine shrugs — but steps forward back into potential harms’ way. “No one blew up so that’s a good sign.”

“I didn’t know — _seriously?_” If Taylor looks between the hunters any quicker he’s going to get whiplash. “That was on the table? _Why didn’t you tell me that was on the table?_”

“Because it wasn’t,” explains Nik curtly, “not when I’m the one casting. Kathy on the other hand — she’s got a reputation for that kind of thing.” He finally pries himself away from Ivy’s book to give his rival a sardonic raise of his eyebrows. 

“Touché.”

But Cal hasn’t gotten his answer and makes a point in telling them. “Just ‘cause no one blew up doesn’t mean it worked. Did. it. work? Is he protected?”

Maybe the way Ryder lets his hand linger on Taylor’s knee is a bit awkward — but not uncomfortable. Like his touch is an extension of the spell. He even gives what may be the first look of _hope _Taylor’s ever seen.

“We can’t be certain until we’re outta the _Shift’s_ wards but yeah; yeah I think so.”

It’s good news. Arbitrarily good, but good — and _boy _does he need a dose of good right about now.

“We should go tell the others.” Taylor stands and tucks Ivy’s book at his side. 

“We _should _start workin’ on tracking down what’s after you.”

“Why not both?” It doesn’t take supernatural senses to know there’s another round of bickering on the horizon — so Cal takes it upon himself to pluck the book in hand; gestures to Taylor’s smudge-tattooed forearms. “We’ll start team strategy downstairs and, Taylor, if you wanna get rid of all that?”

Yes, yes he wants to very badly. 

Ryder frowns, starts to argue; “This ain’t a _team _sport — hey! Kujo, get back here with that book!” And is caught between standing his ground and doing his job when Cal darts out towards the hallway staircase.

Katherine gives a shake of her head but doesn’t do much to hide her bemusement at their antics. “Go on,” she tells Taylor on her way out, “I’ll make sure they don’t throttle each other. At least not until you can bet on the winner.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He closes the door behind her — closes it, but doesn’t turn the lock just in case — and heads to shower off the spellwork.

* * *

_“I asked nicely, Smith. Now I’m _telling; _calm down before I have to rethink lifting your ban!”_

_“Come on Garrus, but him some slack. He’s excited.”_

_“Well an excited vampire does not a friendly and relaxed environment make! At least move all _this _to a table — I don’t have any room to serve drinks!”_

The rest of the _Shift _comes into view when Taylor finishes rubbing his hair dry and tosses the towel over his shoulder.

Sure enough Cadence — still imposingly tall with Krom sitting at a booth — hovers over a spread of papers, folders, and what look like newspaper clippings scattered across the bartop. 

Garrus huffs with two large wooden steins filled to frothing in his hands. Practically shoves them at Cal on the other side of the bar with a flippant and frustrated gesture to the customers waiting while engrossed in their billiards at the front.

Katherine continues defending Cade — though at this point it seems a little more involved than simple loyalty to her employer. It’s the same concern she had for him in the cage fight. 

Only he hopes this won’t end similarly.

“I can’t believe you’re _not _interested, Garrus,” Cadence laughs with borderline hilarity; opens a manila folder and pulls out thick embossed paper that oozes age and historical importance. “Or was I only interesting when I was shiny and fresh from the war?”

“Oi!” barks Ivy from her booth; looking up from the page Ryder has her tome open to, “that’s not fair and you know it.”

Katherine knocks the tip of her boot into the vampire’s leg — draws a long sigh from him.

“Very well… you’re right. Apologies, Garrus.”

“As long as he’s throwing insults and not his fists like he did in that cage I couldn’ give less of a shit.” As Cal passes Taylor he ruffles the damp blond hair out of place with a silly grin. 

“What’s going on…?” 

Taylor wanders over; looks over the piles with passing curiosity before he makes his way to scooch in beside Ryder at the back. 

“Another one of our dear mystery man’s wild wyvern chases.” comments Garrus with no less salt on his tongue. 

“_Goose _chases.” corrects Krom absently. 

“Hm? Oh, well, those too. Equally nasty creatures either way.”

Like always it’s Ivy who takes pity on Taylor’s lack of experience and knowledge. “Taylor, this is Cadence Smith; don’t let the lack of glamour fool you, though, he’s —”

“A vampire,” he nods and gives a small wave; isn’t surprised when it’s ignored in favor of Cadence’s thumbing through the papers for something specific, “I know. We met last night.”

Ivy gives an “ah” in understanding; “Then you got the life story then? Or — well — lack thereof.” And when he shakes his head she claps and giggles with glee. This is obviously a story she adores sharing. “Oh goody. And, pah, he’s too busy to tell it himself. So here’s how it goes. It’s a cloudy night in the summer of 1918…”

“Shouldn’t _I_ be telling it, petal?” Garrus calls, “after all that was decades before your time. I was _there._”

“Hush, momma’s regaling.” And it’s all the argument he has since the fae falls silent — returns to slicing lemons with a hum. “Now where was I? Ah — yes — _it’s a cloudy night in the summer of 1918._

“Before you ask: yes _that _1918\. Half the world dead and the other half dying, and a half somewhere in the middle that can’t be bothered to care. This particular scene is set at the temporary wartime hospital _Saint Marcellus. _†† Pause for laughter —” — she _does _pause, though no laughter comes — “— well that’s disappointing.

“The beds are full, the bugs are a-buzzin’, and this summer was one of the _worst._ All those brave soldiers shipped back from the trenches only to deal with an all-too-familiar brand of torture from New Orleans herself. And in the _Marcellus _you’ve got wings for everything; for lost limbs, for limbs that needed losing, for bullet holes and for internal bleeding and for those who they didn’t really know _what _was wrong with ‘em, but they had to be shoved somewhere until someone figured it out.

“How did that middle-class education on world history do for you, Taylor,” Ivy dances the tips of her nails on the wooden tabletop, “like, what do you know about _shell shock?_”

He tries not to glance Cadence’s way — glad that he has a chance to avert his gaze before he gets caught staring. 

“It’s what they used to call PTSD, right?”

Nik nods; a curt jerk of the chin. He’s definitely heard this story before but there’s a strange and uncharacteristic reverence in his silence. 

Especially given how eager he’d been upstairs to get on with the hunt.

“They had a wing for that, too. That was the one the doctors at the _Marcellus _tried their best to keep empty — bad for morale, you know. And they did a bang-up job with everyone except for Cadence here. First they couldn’t get him to talk; not a sound or a written word to help him out. Then he started talking and they couldn’t get him to shut up.”

A deeper voice cuts her off. “I didn’t have a name nor tags to identify me. I’d been shipped all the way across the Atlantic in civvies for lack of a uniform. The moment the chief medical officer heard my accent he swore up and down every corridor for an hour — trying to find the incompetent fool who mistook a British soldier for an American one.”

Judging by the satisfied look on Ivy’s face she has no problem with Cadence jumping in to give a first-person account. Maybe she even expected it seeing as she goes right back to reading her book like she never said a word. Like she didn’t start it.

Cadence continues without looking up from a fragile folded newspaper. Cradles the old edition of The New York Times with sentimental longing. At his awkward angle Taylor has to stretch his neck in order to _barely _make out the headline.

_ARMISTICE SIGNED, END OF THE WAR!_

“I had been admitted as a mute with a severe case of trench foot and an undiagnosable allergy to direct sunlight. The infection they were content to amputate; the rest… attributed quickly to shell shock. 

“They kept the curtains drawn and drilled me without end. Anything to get me to remember my name, my regiment, how I’d landed on the wrong side of the pond. Professionals, experts in their fields couldn’t crack me open. I was one angry Corporal away from being sent back to Europe when a London-born nurse lied and said I was her cousin. As far as anyone knew I very well could have been. I certainly didn’t argue.

“In truth she knew what would happen to me back on English soil. They didn’t call it_ shell shock_ there, they called it _cowardice._ She lied her way through missing documents and got me released to her care. She was a kind woman, Meredith LaPointe. Took me in while her own husband was looking at a future without his arms. Had two little ones — barely more than toddlers if I recall.

“Killing her is still my fiercest regret.”

The needle scratches on the proverbial record. Leaves Taylor gaping in shocked silence — aware with a bitter slap of reality to the face that no one will meet his eyes. 

But it’s Cal’s first time hearing the story, too. And he’s not so quiet in the face of injustice.

“She saved your skin and you — you _killed her? _What the _fuck?_”

Only Cadence doesn’t answer; palms spread flat and wide on the bartop. Taylor swears he can see a small tremble in his broad shoulders. 

Katherine speaks in his stead. “He didn’t know what he was.”

“Bullshit.”

“Believe what you will,” Cadence finds his voice back from some dark abyss, “but it’s the truth. A fortnight shut up in that ward and no amount of food they gave me did the trick. I didn’t even realize what I’d done until she was slumped on the floor at my feet.”

The wolf still snarls. “If you say you hurt those kids I swear to _Christ…_”

“No. I ran.”

“And put the rest of the city in danger.”

“No more than it already was. If I recall correctly _your Pack_ took advantage of the poverty of the time. Something about _the hunger of the wolf allowing them to extort rations._”

Cal lets out a primal growl. The wooden bar under his fingers groans — tries desperately not to yield.

It’s the twist and _whip _of a hand towel that snaps him out of it. Garrus practically flush with anger and glowering between the werewolf and vampire heatedly. 

“The past is the past — _let it go; both of you_ — before _you,_” — to Cade — “deal with another ban and _you,_” — to Cal — “find yourself out on the curb. Got it?”

They break eye contact but that doesn’t seem to be enough. Not when Garrus slams his palms down with an expectant look. 

“I asked you boys a question; I expect an answer.”

“Got it.”

“Understood.”

“Good,” and the most terrifying thing about it is when Garrus resumes cleaning new glasses as though it never happened, “now, continue. You’re gettin’ to the best part.”

There’s a rueful twist to the vampire’s mouth but he continues anyway. “There isn’t much to tell after that. I found my way to the same place many lost souls did at the time; to the _Graveyard Shift._ Garrus was kind enough to put me up for a short while — gave me better forgeries for an identity and helped organize a meeting and arrangement with de la Rosa and his clan to get me blood when I needed it.

“And I’ve spent every year since working to recover my lost identity.”

There’s definitely a _wow _in there somewhere but Taylor’s having a hard time finding it. Instead awkwardly points between Cadence and Katherine — who answers his unasked question like she’s used to picking up at the end of story-time.

“He started hiring Nighthunters to help his crusade a few decades ago. The guy before me put up his standby job on the table in a high-stakes card game and I lost.”

“You make it sound like I treat you terribly.” Cadence scoffs. Gets a grin from his mortal companion.

“I just hate being at your beck and call.”

“Well I’ve gotten farther with you than I did the others. So you’re doing _something _right.”

“No shit. I’m _me._”

“Indeed you are.” The looks they share are fond but there’s no mistaking the pain hidden behind the vampire’s useless spectacles. 

As someone who has been there — suffered the struggle of self and identity — whether he’s a murderer or not Taylor only feels sympathy for him. 

“So what’s this new information then? Something from the what’s-her-name you met with at Persephone?”

Cadence nods. “Isadora, yes. Among other things that turned up following her father’s death she discovered he had some digging done on my identity in secret. On their own they don’t go very far, but coupled with the favor Kathy here called in last month I think I may finally have some names to dig through.”

“That’s great!”

“Yeah, and also not our concern.” The look Nik gives him is full of reproach. “We can play private identity investigator all we like when we I.D. and gut your would-have-been killer.”

Taylor’s definitely more than a little amused by the ‘we’ aspect of that argument but prior banter tells him to let it go for the moment. It’s not like Ryder’s trying to divert them away from the real reason they’re all there. 

Well, _all _except for Katherine and Cadence. They just seem to need a place to do… whatever it is they’re doing. 

Ryder actually _pushes back_ Taylor for a direct look to Ivy. “Did you bring those bestiaries from your collection?”

“I did.” But the revenant turns up her nose at him. Flexes her cheek muscles while her heavy leather platforms _thud _with her bouncing foot. 

“So… can we look at ‘em?”

“You know you’re asking for an _awful _lot of favors without payment. The protection spell, the _invocation tome,_ and now you want access to my _carefully _crafted and collected bestiaries — meanwhile I haven’t seen even a _hint _of a vial of payment from you.”

There’s Ivy’s playful banter and then there’s whatever she’s up to now — her eyes burning with hot pink embers and looking paler than usual; like the milky, glassy eyes of a corpse.

Maybe it’s because of the clothes she wears but sometimes Taylor forgets she’s somewhere between the living and the dead. 

No way he’s forgetting now, though.

And he’s very, very content to not get involved in their shady (well, he suspects) dealings. Until Ryder is grabbing him by the shoulders and turning him head-on in Ivy’s direction. 

“You’re tellin’ me you’re ready to turn a blind eye to _this _poor, cute face?” _Oh, he’s despicable._

Makes Taylor try to worm his way out from between them; “Don’t get me involved in this!”

“That’s not _fair!_” Ivy pouts. 

“Neither is the death sentence he’s been given.” He tries to grab Taylor’s jaw — dear god he will _not _be mimed like a _puppet _— but accepts the hand that bats his away as _nope too far._ “Is there no room in that heart of yours for his well-being?”

“You know as well as I do that my heart is withered and all shriveled up like a—like a raisin!”

Still her resolve is crumbling every time she’s unable to stop herself from looking Taylor in the eyes. He wants her to fight it solely on principle. But apparently Nik is just as well-versed in the art of weaseling his way out of payments as he is doing the things that get him paid.

She wails — an echoing thing befitting of her undead status — and covers her face with skeletal fingers. “I can’t run a business like this, Ryder! He’s just — just _too damn cute!_”

If it wasn’t helping him stay alive he’d resent that. 

_“Gah!”_ The sweet noise of Nik’s victory. “Get up — move it you fleshballs before I change my mind!”

Ryder tugs Taylor out of the booth with him. Gives Ivy a wide berth as she hauls her own butt out toting a large carpet-bag behind her. 

She hauls the tremendous weight of the bag onto the tabletop and undoes several ornate-looking silver clasps. All in a careful order judging by the way she seals one or two back up and comes back to them later. 

When she opens the bag there’s nothing Taylor can immediately _see _— even when he stands on the tips of his toes to look the only thing visible is a gaping, empty blackness. 

The only way he can describe it? — He feels like he’s looking six feet under; like her body should be way down at the bottom even though Ivy herself said it burned to sinner’s ash long ago.

Ivy pushes up her sleeves; rubs her hands together like she’s itching for a fight. And like an eldritch hellspawn of Mary Shelley and Mary Poppins she reaches down — _way down, like impossibly far down_ — into the bag to scavenge through contents unknown.

“Impressive, right?” asks Krom from his view still in the booth. 

Taylor most certainly agrees. “Very _Hogwarts._” 

“Ha! Bitch, ask who did it first.” Were Ivy’s hands not otherwise occupied she wound definitely be pointing two thumbs at herself. “I know I packed them in here. I regretted not having them as reference on Carlo’s autopsy.”

The distant shatter of glass draws everyone’s attention — even the unwitting Garrus who steps back and looks for the mishap. Only when he realizes it’s _not _his fault, instead something fallen in her bag of horrors, the fae huffs in frustration and refuses to give Ivy any more of his attention.

Even though his ears twitch to every echoing sound.

“Fu—_finally!_” Taylor doesn’t get the time to debate the biological physics of Ivy’s breathlessness when he finds three aged tomes suddenly stacked in unprepared arms; each bigger and in worse shape than the last. 

But of course she beams at him with teeth bleached white as bone and all struggles are forgiven. At least until the leather-bound edges reveal their bruises.

One by one Ryder takes the bestiary trilogy and goes about making his own Cadence-adjacent spread on the table. Nudges Krom and his poetry book out of the way to take up whatever space isn’t displaced by the carpet-bag of the void.

“These are great, Iv’. Thanks.”

“I didn’t do it for you.” Makes her point by flicking the round of his ear. They both reach for Taylor at the same time but Ivy gets there first — loops her arm with his and sticks out her tongue (or the closest thing she has; truthfully he’s afraid to ask what _exactly _it’s supposed to be — because it certainly doesn’t _look _like a tongue) in childish victory.

“I don’t know where you think you’re goin’ but I need him to identify the big-and-ugly.” Ryder drolls. 

“My payment will be in the form of mortal gold,” she pats Taylor’s arm reassuringly, “otherwise known as caffeine. You get to page-flipping and we’ll go on a coffee run for the lot.”

“Actually,” Garrus interrupts, giddy with glee, “I think I may have concocted —”

“Another time sugarplum!” As it is she’s already halfway to the front door.

The look on Ryder’s face is enough for Taylor to know if he _really _doesn’t want to go he doesn’t have to. That his body guard will, well, guard his body and keep him at the _Shift. _

But his legs are restless and sunset _has _always been his favorite time of day. So he’s grateful, but no thanks.

Plus… _coffee._

* * *

Garrus volunteers an old drink specials chalkboard from the back when it gets obvious they’re going to need more than jotting down theories, ideas, and recollections on napkins. Mostly because he has to keep restocking the napkins. 

If Ivy would just let them use little sticky notes on her bestiaries there wouldn’t be a napkin issue. But things snowball as they do and one thing leads to another. Which leads to the right-handed Katherine wrenching the chalk away from the left-handed Ryder to give them a less-smudged list of possible suspects. 

__**THE GRAVEYARD SPECIALS  
** HAPPY HOUR:  
Possessed Corpse(?) **TO** not likely—no relatives(friend?) buried in state 

__

__

__ **THIRSTY THURSDAY COMBO:  
** BUY pursuit began before STL — can’t recall if other being/s present  
**GET** <strike>5</strike> <strike>6</strike> 7(?) holy light arrows = barely a scratch **HALF OFF!!  
AMAZING DEAL!!**

Among various scribbled (and crossed out) suggestions both sleuthed and thrown out by the resident experts. 

Thankfully Cal and Krom are about as versed in the finer details of the supernatural kingdom as Taylor is; makes him feel better about not really being able to contribute other than rehashing the events of that night for the umpteenth time.

But is it all in vain? 

The list keeps going on — Katherine’s resorted to adding her words to the embellished paint border around the board. A fact or prediction will cause them to double-back and cross one theory out but one takes its place not a minute later. 

When Cadence’s curiosity was piqued enough for him to offer help, Katherine had mentioned the vampire’s penchant for, how did she put it: _“long, boring research projects.”_

The fact that he and Ivy seem to be the only ones getting a real hoot out of the never-ending cycle they’ve trapped themselves in _probably _says it all.

Taylor uncrosses his legs; hops down from his latest attempt at unconventional comfort on the pool table and makes for the door. 

“Whoa there — where are _you _headin’?”

He’s relieved Ryder doesn’t announce it to the whole bar. Up front Cadence tries yet again to explain the difference between a vengeful spirit and a poltergeist to Cal. But the wolf keeps insisting all “spectral ghoulies” are the same.

Hopefully the smile he gives his bodyguard doesn’t make him seem ungrateful.

“I was just gonna get some air.”

He would have the same look of _‘seriously’_ that Nik has if their positions were reversed. If he didn’t know what it felt like to feel so damn _useless _like he does right now.

“You realize all _this _—” with a wave backwards, “— is for _you,_ right? Everyone puttin’ in their time and knockin’ their heads together; it’s all so _you _can be safe.”

_Way to make him feel like the biggest piece of shit to ever live._

Only this time his thoughts bleed through — his tongue edged like a razor. “Wow, _really?_ I had _no _fucking clue. Thanks for the update!”

And despite the guilt knotting in his stomach and all the rules on self-sacrifice he’s been unlearning for too damn long Taylor turns on his heel and practically marches out of the _Shift. _

Of course he immediately feels terrible the moment the air hits his face. Wants to turn around and practically march back in; push himself into the conversation to help as best he can. Even if all he can do is repeat every. single. detail of the attack.

But he’s trying to prove a point. So he doesn’t. He tells that nagging voice in the corner of his thoughts to stop trying to make it out like he’s seeking attention and makes himself comfortable on the curbside.

Or at least… he tries. Are there points for trying when he doesn’t _want _to be disturbed but can’t seem to shake the weirdest and most flippant bodyguard in the whole city? Well since it’s _his _point system he decides that yes, yes there are points; a good dozen of them — two if Nik starts lecturing him on the risks everyone inside the _Shift _is taking on his behalf.

What this point system will lead up to exactly Taylor isn’t sure. But it’ll be something good — like a giant platter of beignets when this is all over. 

“Y’know what occurs to me, Rook?” They have to look like street comedians, the pair of them. Nik’s coat is so spread out it might as well look into buying real estate on the sidewalk. 

When he doesn’t get an answer Nik tries again — this time nudges his shoulder with more gentle caution than he thought the man was capable of.

“I said, _‘y’know what occurs to me, Rook?’_”

“Dunno who you’re talking to — can’t be _me._ That isn’t my name.”

“All right, listen here wise-ass —”

“No _you _listen.” Theatrically it was a very bold choice to interrupt but definitely added drama to the scene. Except now he has to follow through on account of Nik actually _listening._

So he steels himself — accepts internal defeat at not getting those two dozen points — and gives the hunter something to listen to.

“I get it, okay? I get how important this is and I get how much I need to appreciate a bunch of randoms I’ve known for less than the time it takes for me to finish a pint of ice cream in my freezer all coming together and helping me find out what’s trying to get me. And I _do _appreciate it; all of it. 

“Garrus for putting me up, Krom and Ivy for trying to help me make sense of everything. Cal for sticking by my side and, hell, even Kathy and Cadence for pitching in what they know. And you—Nik—you’re running around this city on empty but that’s not stopped you from doing your job once. 

“I _see _it; everything you guys are doing, and it blows my literal freakin’ mind because I’ve never really been the kind to just _let myself be helped._ But I don’t know what else to do except sit there and take it because I can’t… I mean I’m…”

He struggles to find the right way to say it; is definitely a little more than irritated because no doubt Nik is enjoying all his bravado suddenly wilting. That is until he catches the strange (but no less obvious) look of _open understanding_ he’s being given. 

Yeah that _definitely _doesn’t help him get his words out any easier.

But Nik doesn’t look ready to interrupt him without hearing what should have been a strong conclusion to his vented frustrations. So…

“I don’t know what to do because _I’m useless._ At least for this kind of crazy. So I’m not going to apologize for needing some space when I’m not really contributing much to the conversation anyway.”

The street is mostly empty — all signs point to the parties a couple blocks up and over. But Nik actually waits until a small group of couples are well out of earshot before he speaks. 

“Get it all out?”

“What?”

“I asked if you got everythin’ out of your system. I’ll shut up if not.”

Taylor rolls his eyes. “I’m surprised you were quiet for that long.”

“It was a struggle, I’ll admit,” Nik’s mouth twists into a rueful half-smile, “but I know sometimes you just gotta say your piece. So keep goin’ if you need to.”

After a moment; “No — I think I got it all out. All I can think about, anyway.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re wrong.”

“Great — here we go —”

Nik gives a light backhand to Taylor’s arm. “I let you go, now can I get a turn?”

“Not if you’re just going to lecture me.”

“How would you know what I’m gonna say? Y’ain’t lettin’ me say it.”

And he only frowns because Nik makes a fair point. Begrudgingly settles himself in and avoids eye contact for what little dignity he has left to be spared a verbal lashing.

“I won’t sit here and argue every little point, ‘kay? Frankly we just don’t got that kinda time. Hell — I won’t even try and tell ya all the thoughts I have on that _‘useless’ _comment. And trust me; I’ve got a fair few.

“‘Cause that’s how you feel, Rook. No amount a’nothin’ will change that. Not until somethin’ happens that changes your mind for yourself. But if you sit out here kickin’ pebbles and feelin’ bad for yourself what’re the chances of that one thing happenin’ anyway? Slim to none, if you ask me.”

“I don’t think I _did _ask you.”

“Roo—_Taylor,_” he turns them face to face this time; no longer content with avoidance, “I’m trying to help here. To give you space, tell you that yeah — all this shit is crazy and it’s easy for people like us to feel like we don’t got a seat at the table. But if you won’t even _listen _to what I’ve gotta say then I ain’t gonna waste my breath.”

Okay, bad idea. Because he feels bad enough but seeing the exhaustion wrinkled in the hunter’s forehead, the developing dark circles under his eyes? Nik’s not kidding — he’s one petulant quip away from straight up leaving Taylor alone.

Isn’t that what he wanted, though? At least when he came out here it had been. Now he’s not so sure.

But something Nik said isn’t sitting right. _“‘People like us?’”_ he repeats, “that’s not… we’re not…” Nik knows so many things. Knows the spells and the weapons and who to avoid and who to cross. They may both be human but that’s like saying Krom and Ivy are first cousins. 

Nik though, like the damn mind reader he is, shakes his head.

“Every Nighthunter was innocent once. Me, Kathy — there’s about as many ways to get into the life as there are ways to stay outta it but don’t think just ‘cause I know what I’m talkin’ about now that I always did.”

There’s a tug on Nik’s coat; makes him whip around and give the sleek black shoe and the suited man wearing it the bird and a snarl. “Watch it buddy.”

The man says nothing and enters the _Shift._ But Nik seems content to pick a fight another time and lets him go.

Looks back to Taylor in that same uncomfortably honest way that makes the butterflies in his stomach start to twist themselves into knots. 

“Y’know what occurs to me, Rook?” he repeats his question again, now and after all this. Taylor isn’t even remotely surprised. This time he’s a little more receptive to it. Maybe Nik was onto something about speaking his piece.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t groan to show his reluctance before answering; “What occurs to you, Nik?”

This victory smile is small and short-lived but no less important. 

“It occurs to me that I don’t know much about you.”

“Seriously?”

His protest goes ignored. “So how ‘bout after we narrow down the usual suspects we change that? Get Gar’ to fry up some onion rings or summin’ and take the rest of the night to make sure that protection charm holds good and tight?”

_Well that was unexpected._

“Are you…?”

“What?”

“I mean, I just — it sounded like…”

“Words, Taylor; they’re for more’n just startin’ sentences.”

_Are you asking me on a date, Nik Ryder?_ He wants to ask; he’s even ready to play it off as a joke. But given how things have gone the last few minutes, nay hours, he just brushes it off with a laugh and; “Are you trying to permanently distract me with the promise of onion rings?”

Together they stand — already Taylor’s trying to think of ways to explain or lie his way through whatever questions everyone inside will ask about his blustery exit. Then Nik is grabbing him by the arms and coaxing him off the curb. Keeping him from being trampled by three more suited men heading inside the bar. 

“Is Garrus throwing a special we didn’t know about?” he laughs; means it as a joke. 

But the way the Nighthunter’s brow furrows isn’t joking. Not at all.

“What,” it takes Taylor a second to realize Nik’s glower is over his shoulder at the door, “what’s up?”

“Here’s a lesson for you —” —Nik’s gravelly voice is suddenly so low he has to lean in just to hear him— “— somethin’ to remember about this world we’re in. ‘Cause there’s weird, and there’s _weird-weird._ Shit that don’t even make sense in a bar full’a creatures. 

“And four suits comin’ to Garrus’ at this time’a day — ‘specially when every coven, clan, and pack is celebratin’ _Mardi Gras_ — is _weird-weird._”

But they aren’t going to _not _go back inside. Even as _‘useless’_ and mortal as he is Taylor knows that. And doesn’t resist when Nik gives him a light pull back and behind him.

“You stay behind me, got it?”

“No arguments here.”

“For once.” It’s a reply on some sort of instinct — doesn’t develop into their usual bickering half for the situation and half for the fact that Nik doesn’t waste any time yanking open the _Shift _door as a man on a mission.

They pass through the threshold and into an invisible fog of tension. 

Nik’s right; though they arrived separately the suits are together and — a little more than that — two of them have handguns aimed forward. It doesn’t take supernatural senses to know they have every intent to use them.

“Maybe I wasn’t speaking loudly enough,” says Garrus — who looks more flustered and _angry _than Taylor thought the fae had in him, “but _you. are. not. welcome. here._ So leave before this gets ugly. The next time I have to say it, it won’t be a suggestion.”

“Everything all right here, Garrus?” Nik calls. Makes one of the armed men turn for a fraction of a second before he focuses back on the group ahead. 

Only it occurs to Taylor how _weird-weird_ it is that they don’t bother turning around — or didn’t bother locking the door behind them for that matter — when confronted with new arrivals.

Means, perhaps, that whatever they’re facing at the front is too dangerous to even consider looking away.

Judging by the way Cadence stands — one arm thrown out as a barrier to Katherine, upper lip twitching in a flicker of a snarl, eyes the same burning red as they had been while fighting the Minotaur — yeah; that’s the case for certain.

Garrus scoffs his answer. “Besides the fact that these imbeciles apparently need a refresher on the definition of a _sanctuary,_ just peachy!”

“We’ll be happy to leave once we’ve got who we came for.” barks one of the suited men. “And not a moment before.”

“You idiots,” Ivy sneers, “you won’t even be able to _fire _those things in here without the wards handing you your asses on a platter.”

“It’s not the act, but the threat behind it.”

Cadence steps forward. Like a dance one of the men goes to step back on instinct until his partner holds him fast. The vampire sweeps his ruby gaze across the line they form. “Am I wrong? Your boss wouldn’t send you in here without warning you about the wards first.”

“Enough yakkin’. You either come with us willingly or as a body in a bag. Your choice, Smith.”

“If you’re going to _act _like you don’t have ears…” Even Taylor can’t suppress a shudder at the warped, demonic lilt to Ivy’s threat. The hunger in her fiery eyes.

But Krom holds her back — the only one who looks like bullets would bounce right off of him but also the most fearful of the lot. _“Ivy don’t, please…”_ he whispers.

“Care to catch a guy up?” Nik tries again. Katherine leers at him over the black-suited shoulders.

“They’re here for Cade, dumbass. Three guesses who they work for.”

Nik nods, something unspoken passing in the undercurrent of her response. He gives a few jaunty steps and even tempts fate so far as to pat one of the armed man on the shoulder. Brings Taylor around with a hand on his wrist only to push him out of harms way to the corner of the bar.

“Well you gotta admire their work ethic.”

“Do we, though?”

“Yeah!” He sizes up the goons — steps back with a challenge in his arms spread wide. “More so when you think a’those wards Garrus mentioned. D’you know what happens to firearms, Gar’? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

Garrus practically growls. “It’s not pretty.”

A ripple of unease starts to break the would-be kidnappers’ bravado. Fingers flex on triggers. A bead of sweat trickles down and stings in one’s eyes. 

“If Lady Smoke wants to speak to me she can come herself,” snarls the vampire, “since she obviously knows how to find me.”

“Not just you.”

It’s an empty threat in the safety of the _Shift’s_ wards but the damage is done; makes Cadence rush forward with an open fist ready to catch the speaker at his throat. 

_“Cade — no —!”_ Garrus calls too late. 

A bright flash of light momentarily blinds them — but even as Taylor goes to shield his eyes he watches an invisible force of incredible strength send Cadence flying backwards and into the bar. The wood is solid, refuses to yield, and he sinks down onto the floor just as Katherine rushes to help him stand.

Apparently the wards aren’t just against goons — but anyone ready to cause harm.

The henchman rubs his throat, probably near wetting himself at the knowledge of how close he came to the same end as the Minotaur, and has the gall to manage a half-grin. “Well that’s handy.”

“What the _fuck _does Smoke want?” Kathy shouts through gritted teeth. 

“What she’s owed.”

“She isn’t _owed _shit!”

Cadence rubs the back of his head with a groan. “I gave up what she owed me.”

“You don’t offer up a nickel and take the whole damn safe. Not in this town. Not when it comes to Lady Smoke.”

Katherine looks ready to test the boundaries of the wards; at the very least with her words. But Cadence’s hand on her arm as she helps him stand holds her back.

“Fine, I’ll go —”

_“Like hell you wi —”_

“If only to right this fucking business of favors and what’s owed.” The look Cade gives her isn’t one to be argued with. Not that it’s stopped her before. But even from across the room Taylor feels the same unease that he had back watching the vampire in the cage. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Rather than outright refusing Nik plays his cards a little closer to his chest. Gives Cade a stern look that promises help if he needs it — which might be very soon judging how things have escalated so far.

“No, but that doesn’t mean I won’t do it anyway.”

“Smart choice.” With a gesture from the same shiny-shoe asshole who stepped on Nik’s coat the guns get tucked away. Whether they can be seen or not it doesn’t change the fear they bring. “Get a move on. Lady Smoke doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Cadence scoffs. “She may have power over many things but not even Tonya Reimonenq can control the sun and moon. She can wait until it’s safe for me to leave.”

Compelled by the lurch in his stomach Taylor flies forward; bolts around the table as if fucking compelled and pushes Ryder aside to grasp for the vampire’s arm.

“What did you say?” 

Cadence looks like he’d forgotten Taylor even existed. “What? Let go.”

“That name — say it again.”

“Rook?” He feels Ryder’s concerned touch but couldn’t give less of a fuck. 

_“Say it again.”_

But confusion aside, Cadence does; “Tonya Reimonenq — Lady Smoke.”

_What are the damn odds? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> †incantation full translation (taken from google translate): _"We cast aside our place as mortal servants to a higher power. Where we seek sanctuary none has been given. Thus we take it upon ourselves to invoke powers who have gone blind to our plight. We demand their protection. We demand their sight. You will ward away this evil and its sorrows. Protect this skin from foul touch, this blood from ill intent, this mind from wicked ways. Do so until the deed is done and evil has met an end."_
> 
> ††Saint Marcellus: Marcellus is a name derived from Mars, the Roman god of war. Ivy finds it funny that a hospital was named after violence. (Saint Marcellus is/was not a real hospital.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> Taking the road less traveled from here on out! Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading! 
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	10. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor and Vera reunite just in time for a stand-off between hands, guns, and a little too much screaming. He’s really starting to think he’s not cut out for this ‘main character’ gig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** violence, gambling, firearms/guns, escalated yelling, threats

Taylor recognizes the restaurant when a waiter exits the kitchen with a large silver cart laden with all the materials for their specialty flaming bananas foster. Peeks as best he can, standing on the tips of his toes, to see the bustling front of the gilded establishment before one of Smoke’s henchmen catches him looking and shoves him forward with a grunt of warning.  


As if he wasn’t seriously dejected at the fact that he’s already having to miss out on the promised onion rings.

“What — is Smoke gonna make us _clean dishes_ as punishment?” Cal sneers. The comment earns him a smack to the back of the head but even with a werewolf growling in his face the other suited guard doesn’t even blink.

Four men in mobster-movie suits ushering five unusual-looking characters around the back walls of the five star restaurant should raise more than a few alarms but you wouldn’t know it based on the staff’s reactions.

How they purposefully look away and give their entourage a wide berth; some even moving aside to take the long way around to where they need to go. 

If they were actually being held captive and against their will it wouldn’t be any use to try and beg for help. Every waiter, cook, and busser knows to keep their attentions on their jobs. Whether they’re bribed or threatened into silence is the only question but ends in the same answer. 

They’re on their own.

The journey ends in a large chrome door. One of the guards reaches out but jumps back as a broad-shouldered woman exits with a wooden crate of vegetables. 

Not a word passes between them. Part of the deal no doubt.

He holds the industrial freezer door open and jerks his head. “In.”

“Yeah… not gonna happen.” Ryder gives them a look of _‘really, like we’re that stupid’_ but then again they _did _all agree to join Cadence for his not-so-friendly meeting with Lady Smoke… so they very well may be.

Well; no. Cadence agreed — which automatically implied Katherine would join him. And the startling revelation of Lady Smoke’s real name meant that Taylor was either going to go at their side or find a way to sneak in on his own — this was just easier and less likely to cause injury. 

And where Taylor goes Ryder is never far behind. Cal, too, apparently.

Not that the _Shift _trio didn’t try to tag along — but they already _looked _like an ambush waiting to happen. Probably best not to actually _be _one.

“Funny you think you still got a choice.” But before Ryder can call his cocky bluff one of the armed men whips out his gun and smashes it into the Nighthunter’s shoulder without warning or hesitation. 

Taylor throws away any consideration that those around them might be getting paid off. Only fear would keep any decent person from helping the way Ryder cries out and buckles to his knees.

His assailant stows away his gun almost too slowly — like he’s ready to use it again; but just ready but eager. “Get in the fuckin’ freezer. Or else.”

If he felt useless before Taylor’s glad he’s suddenly too cold to dwell on how he feels now. 

He blindly grabs for the nearest thing — a potato of all things — and holds it against Nik’s throbbing injury while helping him up. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Aw, Rook, I didn’t know you cared.” teases Ryder; probably to hide the wince in his smile. 

“Not funny.”

“Admit it; a little funny.”

The three mortals are already shivering when two of the guards step inside with them. The _click _of the freezer door locking them inside definitely doesn’t help matters.

“Step back —” says the apparent leader, actually shoves Katherine into Cadence who holds her close and looks ready to add _‘asshole bodyguard’_ to the restaurant specials for the night, “— I said back!”

So they press themselves against the shelving on the walls and watch — with some interest, but mostly spite and murderous intent — as he reaches behind hanging garlands of herbs and grabs for something blindly. 

With a metallic _thunk _the back wall — no, the back _hidden fucking door_ — loosens enough to be pushed forward and open. Revealing a set of rickety and definitely code-violating wooden steps that lead down into a no-less frigid abyss.

Before the guard has the chance to bark another order Cadence steps forward with hands raised. “Let me guess; _in?_” 

The guard’s upper lip curls. But all it takes is a flash of the vampire’s true face for him to back off and mutter under his frosty breath.

Down, down they go one at a time with their new friends at their backs. The only consolation being, what, that it’s slightly less cold? Sure he can’t see his breath anymore but that doesn’t mean he’s not already a Taylor-sicle. 

Cal arrives at the bottom first; opens the door to some kind of back office. Like a security room, only… underground. 

A similarly-suited woman looks up from a row of fuzzy monitors as they start to crowd inside. It’s not a space meant for this many bodies especially when one of them is a broad-shouldered wolf and the other is a vampire too-damn tall. Judging by the abandoned snack wrappers and the digital solitaire game on her screen this isn’t a post that ends up with many guests. 

She leaps to her feet; chair rocketing backwards on rickety wheels to collide with a small space heater loudly. But after catching sight of their captors before she can reach for her holstered weapon — she relaxes. 

“The hell, man,” she yanks her chair away from Cal’s mere _vicinity._ Might be in the wrong business if that’s how she reacts to a wolf, but it’s not his place to comment. “You were only supposed to bring the fighter.”

He pushes between Ryder and Taylor — and Taylor _swears _he hears something like “_you _try arguing with these crazy bastards” under the man’s breath — to the only other door at the far end of the post. 

“Fuck off.”

“Hope for your sake she’s in a mood for company.”

“I said _fuck off._”

Good to know witty workplace banter applies to all occupations; even those of the hired henchman variety. 

“Now listen here,” it takes him a second to realize he’s talking to them, now; and beyond monosyllabic orders — it’s a _Mardi Gras_ miracle, “none of you are _guests _here. So don’t touch nothin’, don’t even look at nothin’. One toe outta line and it won’t end pretty for you.” 

He looks pointedly at Cadence then. “No wards to protect you now, bloodsucker.”

But if he hoped to instill some kind of fear he’ll have to try a bit harder. _Afraid _seems to be the last thing he is — especially when he casually, almost coyly tucks his hair behind his ears and looks at the mortal man over the top of his glasses. 

“None to protect _you,_ either.”

And hopefully those threats won’t really be held up because the moment the door opens to a luxurious — _and warm, thank the heavens warm_ — casino floor Taylor looks at every single thing he can. Blatant disregard; living life on the edge. 

But who could blame him?

It’s not the same glitz and glamor of Persephone’s main atrium but that doesn’t make the underground treasure any less glittering. Lady Smoke’s Den is swathed in rich violet velvets and polished golden trim; every gemstone in inky black bright enough to catch the reflection of whatever passes nearby. 

From the black iron of the gambling tables to the uniform designs on the back of each deck of cards in play there’s no denying the wealth it takes to wind up down here. Where the underbelly of Persephone was filled with rusted metal and bloodstained concrete this place undoubtedly hosts the cream of the crop.

Whether that specific crop is of the poisonous variety, though? Well Ryder is still using a semi-frozen potato as an ice pack so that pretty much says all that needs to be said.

He came here to meet Lady Smoke — without a doubt in his mind she must be some relative of Vera; even in New Orleans their family name is too unique; too ethereal. 

But by some twisted hand of fate he doesn’t even have to go that far. Not when he recognizes a sleek pair of black satin gloves nursing a cocktail at the black diamond-encrusted bar across the room.

Two steps forward but someone yanks him still by the back of his collar. Turns to see Cal’s eyebrows raised in incredulity. 

“Just ‘cause this place doesn’t look as dangerous as the fights doesn’t mean it ain’t, Taylor,” but his hard, stern tone quickly melts into just plain concern, “come on — you know better than to wander ‘round a place like this.”

“I — I’m not.” Taylor keeps looking back to the bar; keeps his eyes on Vera’s turned back. Refuses to have a repeat of last night at Persephone’s — refuses to let her slip through his fingers again like… like smoke.

“Then what the hell’re you doin’ Rook?” Ryder joins in but it’s hard to take him seriously with his spud pack. Even he looks at it like it offends him — makes quick work of disposing it on a passing silver tray of empty champagne flutes. “You asked me to follow ya on blind faith but the more I’m doin’ that the closer an’ closer I’m gettin’ to taking an injury I ain’t comin’ back from.

“So no more wandering off — not until you come clean about what you and Lady Smoke have in common.”

It’s been fifteen whole seconds and he’s terrified he’s lost her. Or maybe that she was never there to begin with. But even with Ryder snapping his fingers in Taylor’s face to draw back his attention he risks a look — exhales in audible relief when he catches her face in profile as she smiles and makes casual, inaudible conversation with the bartender.

“Her.”

In a reversal of fortune — and while Nik looks up to find just who he’s talking about — Taylor pulls at the side of the leather coat and digs around for the Nighthunter’s phone. “Hey — what — watch the coat!” But he steps just out of arms’ reach protests aside. 

Luckily Cal’s on his side; stops Ryder from yanking back what’s his as Taylor quickly dials and holds the phone up to his ear; turns to watch intently as the metallic dialing starts chiming.

Across the floor decked in a rug more expensive than his theater company’s entire yearly budget the tiny digital first keys of the _AME _theme begin playing. Loud enough to draw an unimpressed frown from the bartender and a look of horrible realization from Vera.

The three men watch as she fumbles around; digs through the inside pockets of her black leather blazer. She procures Taylor’s phone from the left side and looks at the screen of dancing lights like she’s never seen such a miraculous and terrible device before.

Taylor ends the call by flipping the phone closed with a little _too much_ force. At the bartop, Vera’s relief is short lived as the music ends and the screen goes dark. But the shudder that rolls down her spine is large and all-consuming. Makes her look around practically petrified when her gaze finds home on Taylor and his definitely _not _impressed frown.

“So that’s the girl who has your phone, huh.” Ryder doesn’t have to say it; they both know. She was _there._ She was there that night, and she ran away, and whether or not the Vera he saw in Persephone’s betting crowd was real she’s very much real here and now. 

“What’re the odds?” Cal gives a surprised little laugh. But it’s not his fault; he doesn’t know the whole story.

Taylor, though — he’s starting to think nothing in this town is ever by chance anymore. 

“Really, really likely.”

And it’s good to feel like he has support as he marches straight the-fuck up with a werewolf and a Nighthunter at his back.

_Where were Cade and Katherine? Okay — okay — one problem at a time._

Only _now _what’s he supposed to do? Because he kind of wants to slap her — but _that _isn’t happening. One of those things that’s supposed to stay in the back of the mind and no further.

He could shout; make a scene. But that would make all their pushing and shoving and freezer-standing for nothing. And eventually they _will _find Cadence and help him out. So… no to that, too.

And it’s all so complicated and hard and makes his stomach twist and turn so finally Taylor just thinks _fuck it_ and says the first thing that comes to mind. Turns out to be something a little more heavy than he’d anticipated but no less important.

“You knew about all this,” he jabs his finger into her shoulder, “about… about _everything _—”

“Tay, I didn’t —”

“And even if you didn’t know _exactly _what was happening you had _some frickin’ idea._” Now _that _Vera doesn’t argue against — though she’s only barely biting her tongue and he can see it. 

“You did; you had more pieces of the puzzle than us. And knowing that you… you let Krissy and I jump over that wall and _to our own damn deaths._”

There’s a startled noise from Cal but that’s all. Taylor can’t quite care in the presence of all the frustration building up; bubbling over. 

There’s been a nagging voice in his subconscious threatening him _not _to cry but Vera’s choked out words make that impossible.

“Is — Is Cookie dead, then?”

Taylor finds himself torn between wiping the tears before they can fall down her cheeks and telling her every. gruesome. detail just to make her cry harder.

“No —” — Vera claps her silken palms over her mouth to stifle a soft sob — “— no she’s not dead. Not yet.”

But she _is _in a coma; or probably worse. She’s in a strange hospital room in a strange city and she’s suffering untold horrors from that awful grotesque creature’s wicked touch and her two best friends in the entire world are in the same city and still haven’t gone to see her.

They are officially the worst people in this world and the other, preternatural world that borders theirs on the head of a pin.

“I’ll take my phone back now.”

She offers it like an olive branch; maybe he gets a _little _satisfaction from yanking it from her and shoving it in his jeans.

Then, because he’s mad but he’s not _cruel;_ “I’m glad you’re safe Vera, really.” He opens his arms slightly but waits for her permission for an embrace — remembers what Kristin had said about Vera liking her personal space.

Now though he’s not so certain it’s that simple. He knows a lot more than he did when they first met.

“A-_hem._” 

They pull apart. Ryder stands with his arms crossed and an expectant tap to his boot. “Are we mad at her or not?”

“We’re…” Taylor and Vera exchange looks and there’s no doubt in his mind that her remorse is genuine. “We’re getting over it.” _We,_ he thinks with a laugh. But doesn’t dare mention it lest Ryder close up more than he already is in this place.

Like he is right now.

“Good. Then maybe you can give us a _proper _introduction.” He’s zeroed in on her gloves; Cal too, he notices. Whatever has them on edge its more than a simple case of being protective of him. As if they didn’t have enough problems — and enemies — already.

Taylor clears his throat awkwardly; gestures between the meeting of two worlds who seem not to _want _to meet. “Uhm, okay. Vera, this is Ryder, my, uh, my bodyguard — _don’t ask,_” thank god she doesn’t, “and this is Cal; he’s a friend. Cal, Ryder; this is —”

“Vera, yeah, we got that,” interrupts the hunter lowly, “though how you came to be so buddy-buddy with Lady Smoke’s kid is my problem at the moment.”

And while Taylor’s brain is still turning rusted gears and starting to smoke with the sheer what the fuckery of Ryder’s accusation — Cal pipes up; “Smoke’s _runaway kid, _if I’m gettin’ my stories straight.”

_Is he getting his stories straight, _the look Taylor gives Vera — eyes so wide the whites go all the way around and jaw on a broken repeated hinge of not-quite-open and not-quite-closed — asks. 

But that’s nothing compared to the look of utter shame that darkens Vera’s expression; to the way she looks around for listening ears and prying eyes.

“Keep your voices _down._”

Ryder sees her buttons and, in classic Ryder fashion, _pushes._ “Yeah you ain’t gettin’ outta talkin’ that easy.”

She looks around with worry etched into her forehead. Finally lands her eyes on an empty poker table about as far out of the way as possible in the intimate space; half-obscured by a black-tile fountain where water the color of lavender fields bubbles and streams in arcs around an indiscriminate figure. “Fine, fine. Just — not here.” 

And the Vera he sees now is definitely not the same young woman he’d met previously. She takes charge easier — less of a babysitting role and more of a… a woman who knows what she wants and asks for it unabashedly. At her call the bartender summons an attendant with bright, catlike yellow eyes that narrow into slits when she’s told to set them up a game at Vera’s preferred table.

Just like at Persephone they stick out like sore thumbs — but unlike at Persephone it doesn’t seem to matter. The attendants are ready to turn their noses up and away but the sight of Vera — the sight of her gloves like some status symbol — has them smiling, crooning; offering hors d'oeuvres more expensive than Taylor’s rent and drinks of all kinds. Even ones Taylor can partake in much to his surprise.

So they may _look _like they’re engrossed in a game of poker but one would be surprised to discover naught but a clever ruse.

Or at least a ruse on his end. Taylor’s got no living clue what he’s doing. But the cards are nice.

"Was it really you I saw at Persephone last night, Tay?” asks Vera. His nod earns a low whistle. “I figured I was just seeing… well, that you were a spectre of some kind; a manifestation of my guilt in leavin’ you and Cookie high and dry. And you really knew _nothing _about the supernatural world before y’all were attacked?”

“Since _Twilight _doesn’t count, yeah — er, no. I didn’t know a thing.”

“When you go in, you go all in, huh?”

If she means it as a joke it doesn’t really come off that way. Just makes him look down at his fancy deck and shrug. “Not exactly by choice.”

“Right. Of course. I’m sorry.”

“For what, though,” pipes up Ryder after downing a long gulp of his beer, “are you sorry for bringin’ it up like a joke or for leavin’ him utterly defenseless?”

_“Christ, Nik.”_

“Am I wrong, Miss Reimonenq?”

Something tells him the glare exchanged across the cards isn’t the first, nor would it be the last between them. 

But Vera takes him by surprise when she shakes her head dejectedly. “No, no you’re not.”

Like a nervous habit Vera tugs at the edges of her gloves; hikes them up higher over her elbows. Cal physically shifts his chair over as she does — like she’s hiding knives and guns in the skin-tight fabric. 

“Okay,” Taylor tosses his cards — it was probably a shitty hand anyway — and looks between the locals one by one by one, “usually this is the part where something weird or coincidental happens and I don’t end up having to be the one to ask the stupid questions. But apparently not this time.

“So either someone starts telling me _what the heck is up_ or I start doing dumb shit until my answers come to me freely. And Nik — you know I can do some _dumb _shit.”

Taylor only adds emphasis because of the hesitation clear in Nik’s frown. The way he looks at Vera as if to get _her _to do it instead of his usual bravado-riding explanation train.

But neither of them say anything. So Cal leans back and nurses his whiskey with his words. 

“Lady Smoke ain’t your average mafia boss, Taylor.”

“Yeah, yeah I got that part. Your brother was in a cell, there were death fights. The guns aimed at us at the _Shift._ I was there.”

The wolf gives him a little smirk. “Thanks for the reminder. But it ain’t just guns and suits and shady deals with Smoke.”

“Underground casino notwithstanding?”

“Let him finish, Tay.” mumbles Vera; the look she gives Cal is a grateful one. Taylor holds his hands up — mimes zipping his lips.

“The Reimonenqs are an old Quarter family. Y’all’ve even got Laveau on your tree, right?” He nods to Vera. “Certainly been ‘round as long as the Pack, and the only ones older than that are the Lamrian folk.”

“— Local fae colony,” interrupts Nik lowly, “we’ll talk about it later. Just know it was here before the city was even settled.”

“So you’ve got roots here, is that a big thing?” Taylor asks — would rather hear it from her than yet another secondhand account of something else. He’s getting far too many of those.

When Vera finally answers her hands are folded in her lap. The picture of politeness if not for the shining fear in her eyes. 

“What you need to understand, Tay, is that the Reimonenq name used’ta belong to all who practiced under the coven. Eventually the coven became jus’ family so it didn’t really matter, but you won’t find anyone born and bred here who doesn’t know the name — and fear it.

“And she’s used that her whole life — _my whole life_ — to build this awful, cruel mockery of an empire.”

“_‘She’_ being Lady Smoke?” 

“Yeah.”

“Lady Smoke being your mother.”

“Yeah.”

“Your mom; Lady Smoke. The big bad everyone talks about like she’s a boogieman story — the woman who sent what basically amounted to _hitmen _to kidnap our friend for standing up to her and keeping Cal’s brother from getting mauled.”

He’s not saying it to be _cruel,_ though Vera winces at every injustice like she personally signed off on it. Taylor’s just… a little out of his element. More so than usual. 

“How many times does the girl gotta tell you, Rook? Yes.” Ryder’s knee knocks against his under the table. It’s enough to draw him from his factual-overload stupor; only just.

“So she’s — what — a witch? Wait — does that make _you _a witch?” 

_Witches, werewolves, and vampires; oh my._

Before Vera can open her mouth to answer their game is brought to a halt by the arrival of a familiar suit-clad asshole. And he’s got friends. This time Taylor pays close attention and watches the pain Vera stomachs in order to put on a brave, almost commanding atmosphere.

“We’re a little busy here. And we’d like some privacy.”

The henchman’s upper lip curls at the sight of Ryder — a grimace he only barely tosses aside as he answers Vera; “You can finish up your game of Go-Fish later. Lady Smoke requests your presence, Miss Reimonenq. And the presence of your… _guests._”

“She can’t just _summon me._ I’m not one of her lackeys.”

“That may be — but you are under Lady Smoke’s protection. Or did you forget what you agreed to when you broke onto the floor last night?”

Taylor’s teeth grit painfully. “Back off, you soggy cockwaffle.”

“Tay —” her touch on his arm is gentle; appreciative, if concerned, “— hon’… he’s not wrong, okay? No matter how much I wish he were.”

“So much for bein’ the runaway…” Cal mutters under his breath. 

“Lady Smoke doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” 

And he probably can’t pull his bully-type shit with Vera, not without some serious consequences whether there’s family tension or not, so there’s no missing the sick sense of satisfaction he gets in yanking Taylor’s chair practically out from under him.

Lucky him that Taylor isn’t unfamiliar with childish bullying tactics. He just expected people to grow out of them once they left high school.

Unlike before their goon leads the way rather than corralling them at the back. Gives them the chance to talk in hushed and hurried whispers because they’re being led _fast._

“Magic — real magic — is something we’re born with; a gift we can’t give back no matter how badly we want to.” Vera continues hastily; “Yes, I’m a witch. And I ain’t proud of it, not like my mother is. I’ve spent my whole life tryin’ to get away from her and our curse.”

“And that meant running away to New York.”

“I could have run farther but… I refused to let her dictate where I was going to be. How I was going to live my life.”

That’s something he can definitely understand — but Vera’s actions are singing a different tune than her words. “If you hate her so much then why are you here? Why’d you go to her?”

“Because —” 

“Because whatever was huntin’ you guys that night scared ya enough to look to the most powerful woman in the city for help.” 

Nik doesn’t interrupt with a question — sounds so sure of himself. But Taylor’s ready to hear Vera out, really he is, until she suddenly can’t look him in the eyes.

It _had _been a whole other side of her; but Taylor had chocked it up to fear. Fear could make people do crazy things — like hide in walled-off cemeteries. 

Finally Vera chokes out wetly; “Yes.”

The suit stops them in front of a closed door. 

Nik reaches out and grabs Vera — holds fast despite how she jerks away. Leans in to whisper something so quiet Taylor has to step in himself in order to hear it. 

_“You know what it was, don’t you?”_

_“I-I —”_ stammers Vera.

_“What was it?”_

_“I don’t…”_

_“This ain’t just about you anymore. Now quick, before they —”_

“In.”

It’s too late. Judging by Cal’s look of apology he tried his best to give them as much time as they could but the door’s open and they’re out of time.

_“We’re not done.”_ Ryder growls into Vera’s ear; lets her go before the suit decides he doesn’t want to ask a second time. The touch he lands on Taylor’s middle back is far kinder, coaxes him forward and through the awaiting doorway.

He doesn’t have much of a choice but to follow. Still throws a look back to Vera as she wipes away the smallest tear and puts up all the walls she needs to follow them inside.

_“You didn’t need to be so harsh.”_ Taylor hisses at him. 

_“Sometimes there ain’t much of a choice.”_

There was this time, Taylor’s about to say, when the literal fog obscuring the room beyond clears as though it’s been waiting for their arrival to part. Lady Smoke’s a witch, he remembers.

So maybe it was.

The ambiance of the back room is the same as the front — the only difference being the smoke that clings to their ankles and obscures the rug at their feet. 

Off to one side a large couch curves in a wide semi-circle. Relief washes over him at the sight of Cadence and Katherine sitting close together with drinks in their hands; the honey-amber of Katherine’s bourbon catches the light in a way the contents of Cadence’s tumbler doesn’t. He’s content not to think too hard about what’s inside. 

But for all their supposed relaxation the pair are stiff — tense. Their ease and touching outer thighs more about keeping close for safety rather than enjoyment. Katherine’s smile isn’t her usual teasing; instead rather strained. A grimace wearing an ill-fitting mask.

At the other end of the room rests a large desk — the kind Taylor might imagine a CEO would buy never to use and only to show off. But the papers and folders spread in a kind of organized chaos across the finished wood tell a different story; one of a business that never stops working.

The woman in the high-backed leather chair behind it is Lady Smoke without a doubt. Not just because he can see the resemblance to Vera — a family chin, the creases in her forehead decades ahead of her daughter’s; a living vision of what’s to come — either. 

She emanates power in the way Kristof did. Control, dominance by birthright without mistake. The aura of someone who was meant for powerful things from the moment they entered the world; where the only thing left up to choice was how they planned on using it. 

The gloves are pretty much a dead giveaway, too. Black lacework on golden fabric. She matches the den outside the way the sun matches the solar system; she sits at its heart and lets the rest revolve around her because it has no choice.

An unnervingly familiar wheeze of a voice catches him off-guard; probably for the best with the way he was staring. 

“Well well well, justice for Meerl!”

Meerl cuts a scrawny figure between them and Lady Smoke. Tap-tapping his long claw-like nails together with the same smarmy grin as last night — only this time with a harsh red line of purpling pressure around his skinny throat. 

Beside Taylor, Ryder’s laugh is nothing short of utterly shameless. “Nice choker you got there, Meerl. It’s a great look on you, really.”

His laughter incites a bloated face of rage in the con-goblin. “You _mock _Meerl?!”

“Was I not bein’ obvious about it?” 

“Pissy—pissface—_pissant Nighthunter!_ Meerl will—!”

“He will do nothing until he is told.”

There’s a touch of gravel to Lady Smoke’s voice. She doesn’t shout because she doesn’t have to — because the moment her lips part the only thing that matters is what _she _has to say. 

Especially to Meerl given the way he backs off, cowers like his nightmares are coming to life. 

It must be a reputation thing, Taylor concludes. Because she’s definitely the more-badass-and-less-fictional version of Don Corleone — no doubt. But for nothing but a sentence to get _that _kind of reaction? It’s almost satirical.

“Meerl apologizes, Lady Smoke,” the urchin cowers with every word, “the Lady knows Meerl does nothing Meerl is not told to do.”

But he might as well be talking to thin air the way she addresses him. Not at all. Because he’s no longer important to her — for the moment at least. Not now that Vera steps up from behind Taylor while the door closes behind them.

Immediately Smoke’s face softens; a shine in her eye, what she probably thinks is tender warmth in her half-smile. What people who can’t love must think love looks like as an expression.

“Vera, baby girl, you —”

The nickname makes Vera cringe. “I told you not to call me that.” She’s probably the only person who could get away with interrupting the mob boss and leave alive. 

“Vee —”

“No, mother; no names but my own.”

Smoke’s brow twitches but her frustration is well-corralled. “Very well, _Vera._”

“Where do you get off on demandin’ to see me like this? Or makin’ your wardens bully my friends into coming with?”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were _friends _with the troublemakers at Persephone?”

There’s nothing _familial _about their exchange but Smoke still manages to make Vera feel like a scolded child. Ducked head and eyes searching for a spot on the carpet — but hindered by the fog.

“You know I don’t like non-answers, Vera.” Smoke presses, but Vera doesn’t yield. Earns them all a heavy sigh while Smoke leans forward and folds her hands together atop an open date book. “Lucky for you, girl, I know all I need to on account of how _helpful _our friend Meerl has been.

“See, he knew I’d take care of everything — but I can’t fix what I don’t know is broke. And would you believe he was the only one to tell me about the unfortunate situation of the fights before morning?”

The goblin practically preens — likely taking her words as praise. 

“The Lady knows Meerl only wants what is best for the Lady’s business, of course.”

“Especially if it keeps his ugly hide from getting flayed alive?”

The haughtiness of Ryder’s tone doesn’t have an ounce of remorse. Not even when it drags the almost golden-yellow of Lady Smoke’s eyes to him. Resting with the full weight of her frustration just below the poised surface.

“You never cease to surprise, do you Mister Ryder?” she croons.

“‘Dunno what you’re talkin’ about; _predictable’s _my middle name.”

“If that were the case you wouldn’t have been waist-deep in my affairs at Persephone.”

“And here I thought I was building a reputation for stickin’ my nose in other peoples business.”

“This ain’t just _anyone’s _business, though, is it?”

It hasn’t occurred to Taylor until just now that Kristof and the Jensen Pack may not be the only big-wigs in New Orleans that Ryder has crossed. Luckily it seems like a distant familiarity though. A mutual respect; and an unspoken threat on both sides to stay out of one another’s way. 

And now Ryder’s gone and drawn first blood — er, well, metaphorically speaking. 

_Oh this could be bad._ This could be very _very _bad.

Only the ice in her tone seems to have the opposite of the intended effect. Makes Ryder stand up straighter with his jaw clenched tight, his words a snarl that makes even Cal blink in surprise. 

“If I’d a’known you were in the _business _of pimpin’ out kids for your cash fights, Smoke, I would’ve gotten involved a _lot _sooner. You can bet on that.”

The color drains out of Vera’s cheeks. Catches her torn between looking at her mother for any kind of denial and, finding none, unable to face the truth without feeling like she’s about to wretch. 

“Momma, you _didn’t…_”

“Don’t you start that now, Vera.”

“But a _kid?_”

Smoke stands with her fingertips spread and pressed into her desk. Her sigh carries a visible weight in her shoulders. It’s heavy for sure but if it isn’t the burden of guilt then whatever she’s feeling means fuck-all to him.

“The Lowell boy was betting with money that wasn’t his. On top of that — he thought he could swindle my hard-earning regulars without consequence. Sometimes they have to learn young. 

“You’d know that, baby girl, if you hadn’t left.”

Tears well up, misting over Vera’s eyes. But its an incredible feat of willpower that keeps her from shedding them — that lets her choke them down. Certainly not the first, and likely not the last. 

“Don’t you _dare _play it off like you were trying to parent my kid brother.” Only then does Lady Smoke actually _notice _Cal. Cal with his face flush with fury and canines bared; Cal with his eyes as yellow as the gold the mob boss wraps herself in. 

“Mister Ryder; I suggest you rein your feral friend in a tad.”

Nik throws his hands up. “No way.”

There’s a _very well_ in the roll of her eyes. Has her walking around her desk with a lush black velvet cape trailing at her modest heels. 

“You must be _Cal._”

“What the hell gave you that idea?”

“Then I will tell you the same thing I told your fledgling con artist brother. It’s an old saying — perhaps you’ve heard of it. _Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time._”

Smoke stands there, haughty and higher than them all — even as Cal roars _“You callous bitch!”_ and makes for her ready to draw blood. And a lot of it.

Whatever witchy-mojo she has must be fucking _powerful _even if Taylor can’t feel it. All it takes is Smoke’s raised hand and even Nik holds his breath.

“You had _posters,_” the wolf seethes, “locked him in a _cage _like he was an animal!”

“Your brother had racked up quite a debt.”

_“He’s just a boy!”_

“Enough!”

When the gloves come off — literally in Lady Smoke’s case — all hell breaks loose.

Taylor looks around wildly, feels himself being pulled back on two sides — catches the first and likely only time Vera and Nik are of the same mind. Backing him up against a wall-length bookshelf so hard he knocks a few volumes on their sides.

For the first time since they arrived Cadence is sprung to action. Holds Cal back with a firm hand but keeps his distance from the witch and her exposed skin. The same look of cautious fear in his eyes as he had in the cage. 

And at the couch, their drinks forgotten and seeping into the rich upholstery, Katherine aims a familiar-looking gun dead between Smoke’s eyes. Completely disregarding the also-familiar sister weapons now aimed at her from across the room.

Now would be the opportune moment for the main character to leap out in the middle of the fray and convince everyone to calm down; to shout _“Nobody needs to get hurt tonight — we’re all on the same side!”_ or some other amount of crap that would be the bare minimum in getting everyone to see the bigger picture. 

Ha — no thanks. No way is he getting mixed in with a vampire who tore a Minotaur to shreds, more guns than should legally be allowed in the same room, and whatever danger Smoke’s manicure ignites.

Nope. See, the best he can figure is there’s a _reason _Vera and Nik were so hasty to pull his only-a-threat-after-a-ton-of-spicy-food ass out of the crossfire. And that’s good enough for him.

Only when everyone’s stayed statuesque-still for the better part of a minute does Cadence pull back — away from Lady Smoke, eying her palms with the same look Vera’s giving the guns.

_“Enough,”_ he repeats and is no less forceful, “enough of this, Tonya. You force me here, you force others — _innocents_ — here, all for this flagrant abuse of your power? I settled the Lowell pup’s debt. You and I are even and he’s out of your cross-hairs.”

“So you’ve been saying, Smith,” — so why doesn’t she sound like she’s content to agree? — “but I don’t recall _agreeing _to your _commerce de dettes._ As it is not the place of they who owe to decide what is suitable payment.”

“You may be speaking of Dominic Lowell, but the same could be said for you.”

Smoke curls her fingers in the air; reminds Taylor of spider legs. 

But Cadence has to be right or she’d have thrown back a snide retort instead of the silent treatment given. 

Finally she speaks but her answer is strained. “We never outlined the terms and conditions of that _particular _contract.”

“Because I know better than to get something in writing with you. I may not know much but I certainly know that.”

“I cannot let this abide, _Smith._ Actions must be made; consequences for those who would publicly challenge the safety I provide this town —”

Maybe there’s more for her to say but she doesn’t get the chance. Not at the disgusted noise that comes off to Taylor’s right — nor the bewildered look Lady Smoke throws their way. Only when she throws up her pointed finger like a gun instead of a stern mother’s tool does Vera make the noise again.

_“‘Safety,’”_ now she actually sounds the part of the witch, too, with her curled upper lip and fists trembling at her sides, “you’re gonna dare stand there in front’a me and call New Orleans _safe?_ After what I told you was after me?!”

Taylor’s glad he’s between them when Ryder turns a murderous flush of violet.

“Now is not the time to air our family grievances, Vera.”

“You _did _know.” Taylor whispers. Loud enough for Vera to hear, to flinch and hug her arms around herself. Looking the same measure of scared and young and vulnerable as she did that night. “You—you _do._ Know; what it is. You know.”

She nods.

“Why didn’t you say?” _When Ryder asked, when we locked eyes under Persephone, before Kristin and I jumped over the wall and to our deaths._ “Why didn’t you help?”

“I didn’t wanna be right.”

Tonya raises her voice, tries to speak over her daughter. “Vera, this is _not _the way.”

“How the hell would you know, mom?!” she lashes out a sob, “You’re content to hide here and pretend everyone’s safe when they aren’t?!”

“_You’re safe,_ baby girl, that’s all I care about.”

“Well I ain’t that selfish.”

It’s taking everything in her to not choke; lose her nerve. “If I’d known you spent all this time thinking it was after _you,_ Taylor, I’d’ve told you sooner. I swear I didn’t mean for Cookie to get hurt — you neither. I thought when I split that you’d be safe.”

“Wait — back up. You think this thing is after _you?_” Nik interrupts, surprised.

_“Not another word Vera Claire Reimonenq, so help me God.”_

Ice-cold demeanor finally melted, some version of the real Tonya Reimonenq shines through in the crack in her voice. In the way she bites her bottom lip so hard it might burst like the vein in her temple might burst. 

Taylor just doesn’t get _why everyone is suddenly so freaked out_ about the way her hand is held aloft at Cadence’s neck. One deep bob of his Adam’s Apple away from choking the life out of the undead. 

Katherine the opportunist takes the stunned pause to aim instead at Vera. Passes the barrel of the gun over Taylor’s chest and this is now officially too many times in the same week his life has flashed before his eyes and been less-than satisfying.

“Back. off. Smoke.” The huntress orders. 

Cadence resists swallowing — painfully so. 

Time to finally take the hint and get as scared as the rest of them it seems.

“You even _think _about pulling that trigger — you know what I’ll do to him.”

Katherine’s laugh is an unfeeling thing. Like a whole different woman stands before them — someone used to carrying the gun, to doing what needs to be done. 

“And the payday of a lifetime goes down the drain, sure,” but her finger doesn’t stop caressing just shy of the pressure point, “but I’ll always find another. Don’t think the same can be said about a _daughter,_ though.”

“Katherine —”

“Shut up, Nik. I let you do your stupid shit. My turn.”

Taylor’s one stupid heroically-inclined thought from stepping in front of Vera when she speaks up; “Stop it, momma. Just — stop it. Too many people been hurt already. 

“Too many more’ll be, too, if we don’t try to get help.”

“You think they’ll _help us?_ The whole city will turn their backs on us — make sure _we’re _the ones who suffer instead of them!”

“You don’t know that! You don’t know them!”

“Stop being so damn naive!”

Voices, tensions rising. Arms wavering with the weight of their weapons and sweat beading like the first of so many bullets down everyone’s backs; their brows. 

It’s not the heroic, main character thing to say but that doesn’t stop Taylor from feeling really good about it when he finally shouts —

_“Will someone please just say what the literal flippity fuck is out there?!”_

“A bloodwraith!”

The way Vera covers her mouth he half expects to see blood dripping down her chin to stain her blouse. Her tongue bit off as divine — or supernatural — retribution for her admission.

Not that that’s the case. In fact he’s left feeling a little bit like he was denied some grand climax.

So he does what he always does — because this other, darker world seems to exist to make him look absolutely ridiculous in how little he knows — he looks to Nik for the textbook entry he’s missing.

“And a _‘bloodwraith’_ would be…?”

“Trouble, Rook…”

Lady Smoke’s pulling her gloves back on. The gun hangs limp at Kathy’s side. Even the biggest bully of the henchmen looks ready to wet himself. There’s nothing reassuring about Cadence’s slow nod of realization — the way the natural enemies vampire and werewolf share a look of _‘well hell.’_

Sometimes it’s not a rallying cry that gets opposing forces to work together. Sometimes fear is more than enough.

And the way Nik pulls him in close, hugs him with one strong arm like he’s already a dead man walking? That’s… uh… that’s pretty damn fearful.

“— It’s really, _really _big trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go… Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	11. Old Laws and New Enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lady Smoke calls a council of the city’s strongest leaders and puts a target on everyone’s backs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** violence, blood, injuries consistent with canon

It hadn’t even occurred to Vera that _someone else_ was the bloodwraith’s intended target. Which probably said a lot about how dangerous it was for her to be back in the city she grew up in. Not that a supremely terrifying and hard-to-kill otherworldly assassin couldn’t have tracked her down amid the dense New York population, of course.  


But it was an awfully big coincidence. Too big for even Taylor; on whom coincidences just seemed to _land _lately. 

So on the Vera-Taylor front all is forgiven. And when this is over — _this _being tonight’s gathering, since neither of them know when they’ll know enough or have a weapon strong enough to take down their pursuant — they _will _visit Kristin in the hospital.

He even made Nik shake on it. His version of a contract written in blood.

Actually now that he thinks about it, he’s starting a new, silent resolution to not be so fucking dramatic over everything. Because at this rate a blood contract would be relatively _normal._

It’s unnerving how at ease Tonya Reimonenq is about everything that’s going on. Even others raised in this life — Cal, Vera, _Cadence _for sure — are dealing with varying degrees of worry and distrust. 

Cal’s the worst of the lot. From the moment Lady Smoke decided to give them what little information they needed (along with a demand for their presence; not a request — a freaking _demand_) he’s been bouncing knees and fingers tugging through his hair and if he bites at the peeling skin of his bottom lip anymore he’s going to start bleeding. 

Cadence; he’s not so worried about. But the _other _vampires that are apparently going to be joining them are another matter.

The collective sigh of relief when the werewolf finally sits is short-lived; the same two bounces of the left knee before he’s up and pacing the length of the large parlor like the hounds of hell are at his heels.

_There he goes with the dramatics again. Are hell-hounds real? Holy shit — is _Hell _real? No, no he’s not going there. Nope. No way._

At least everyone is polite enough not to verbalize how frustrating Cal’s dogged pacing is. Well — _almost _everyone.

“I suggest you find a place to sit _still,_ Lowell,” Lady Smoke doesn’t look up from her leather binder of files; doesn’t have to — her tone carries her intent just fine, “lest you shoulder off some of that restlessness onto the house.”

“I don’t need to be here.”

“You’re involved, boy. Accept it.”

“You don’t know what you’re doing. Or—_fuck_—maybe you do and you just want me to get my head torn off for defending Donny.”

The scratch of Smoke’s pen on expensive paper is all the answer he needs.

Surprisingly it’s Nik to the rescue with words of reassurance and some of that rare sincerity. “Kristof’s got more important things to think about now, if it’s any consolation. So just… relax?”

“You heard his threat. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just goes straight for the throat.”

It’s not _relaxing _exactly but he does eventually settle against the wall on Taylor’s opposite side. The tension rolls off of him in waves and Taylor wants to be sympathetic; he does — _is._ Only he can’t get what Mother Reimonenq said out of his head.

Still he tries — touches the gooseflesh on Cal’s bare arm and feels him simmer down almost instantaneously.

“Don’t get me wrong — I’m terrified of the guy. But Nik’s right; the bloodwraith is more of a threat to the Pack than you are. Kristof’ll see that — he’ll have to.”

It’s the flinch felt around the room; the word _bloodwraith _spoken out loud. Even Vera’s refused to repeat herself; keeps calling it _“that thing”_ and everyone else just follows suit.

If they get to vote on an official codename he’s throwing in _Lord Voldemort._ Because _duh._

The universe makes sure he doesn’t even get the chance to _think _about probing more into the elusive and undiscussed creature, though. Not at the sound of expensive heels on the marble tile in the entryway.

Cal lets out the breath he was holding when their first guests arrive; the tall woman’s figure cut in the same head-to-toe black as her ensemble at Persephone. The women flanking Isadora de la Rosa look practically _bored,_ but their leader, mother, whatever the new head of whatever empire Carlo left behind is anything but.

Lady Smoke stands and the figureheads exchange curt nods as their only form of greeting — instead she focuses on Cadence with a wary eye.

“Smoke’s _ruthlessness _is legendary — should we begin singing praises of her _forgiveness _as well, Smith?”

It takes Taylor a moment to realize what de la Rosa is doing; how her gesture of respect is just that, a gesture, and whatever power there is left to grab in the thick night air around them has been clawed and claimed with ease. 

Smoke’s face darkens. She watches the exchange like just another of the shadows cast along the windows by the moonlight.

“An accord was reached.” Cadence answers simply. 

It’s not exactly _true _— Taylor’s still reeling, trying to figure out how they all went from threats and offers of deathly touches to bringing together the supernatural figureheads of New Orleans, but when a secret is out it’s out apparently — but it’s the only way to let the conflict die without more of a showdown than they’ve all encountered already.

“That much is obvious.” She purses plum lips. “And I suspect it will not be the _only one_ reached this night if what your daughter claims is true, Tonya. Are you sure you can stomach all that unfinished business?”

Luckily — _lucky for who isn’t exactly clear_ — the _bang _of a door forced open echoes so loud the vampires wince in discomfort. Cal doesn’t even have to scent the air — tenses back up immediately. 

_“This better be good, Reimonenq!”_

Kristof is heard before he’s seen — not for long. Especially in the way he huffs and puffs and stops so abruptly in the eastern doorway that Octavia behind him stumbles straight into his back like a wall. 

_Think he’s seen Cal much?_

The Alpha’s nostrils flare. “What in the _hell _is this?! You best not be gettin’ involved in Pack business —” he rounds on Lady Smoke, practically pushing _himself _over the edge in rage, “— if y’are I swear —”

“Will you calm the fuck down, Kristof?!”

It’s definitely not the Cal who begged for Kristof’s mercy on behalf of his brother; who spent the whole day following busting his ass with as much manual labor as Garrus could find in order to not _deal _with his exile. 

But _hoo boy,_ Taylor likes this version of their wolf — whoever he is and wherever he’s been hiding. The way he steps up and takes charge. Looks his former Alpha dead in the eyes. He doesn’t have anything to lose; not anymore. Nothing to prove but apparently everything to gain.

And in the moment of stunned silence that follows Kristof leaves himself open — tries to come to grips with his Alpha sensibilities and how his own flesh and blood is speaking to him.

“You’re a mile over the line, Cal,” Octavia tries to warn him — to separate them both with her body. And she definitely could if Taylor wasn’t already holding Cal back. 

“If you listened before losin’ your lid things would be a helluva lot easier — for you _and _the Pack.”

“Tell me this ain’t to do with Donny.” Kristof may be the Alpha but it’s obvious who keeps a level head when it’s needed. Octavia’s eyes flare a bright, feral yellow. 

The sudden velvet of Isadora’s laugh behind them is enough to break the tension… for now.

“You agreed to a Beau-Keyes Council without pressing the matter? I expected better from you, Jensen.”

Though the bad blood between Kristof and his nephew may be fresh, whatever horror flick monster-versus-monster feud rests between the most important werewolf and the most important vampire takes precedent.

Gets Kristof’s full attention. _Thank god._

“I ain’t gonna waste time gettin’ told what’s what when that’s what a Beau-Keyes is _for,_ la Rosa.”

“Given what happened to my father I would have pegged you to err on the side of caution.”

“Who needs caution? The less bloodsuckers around the better, I say.”

Octavia’s finally head enough then — curls her fist tight and all laws of physics _should _dictate that she can’t do much damage to a man the sheer size of Kristof. But the bruise that blossoms — lives and dies in reds and purples to settle on a speckled sickly green that reminds Taylor of Meerl back at Smoke’s Den — on his arm says otherwise.

“Our condolences on ya loss, Lady de la Rosa.” Octavia grits out; and there’s no doubt she’s used to apologizing on behalf of them both — not even a glance spared at her Alpha; she knows he won’t say it. 

Their argument ends there with a curt nod from Isadora. At least someone is taking the gravity of the situation into account. The fighters go back to their corners.

A warm breeze settles over those gathered — is enough to rustle the hems of skirts and the trailing ends of Lady Smoke’s cape. Taylor swears he catches the faintest whisper of wooden wind chimes. 

It catches his notice in how strange the feeling is. Strange only because all the windows around them are closed, latched, and locked tight.

“Lamrian’s here.” comments Ryder almost offhandedly after a deep inhale through parted lips. 

Confused, Taylor follows suit. Tastes honeysuckle and something like the aftermath of a bite of strawberries on his tongue. 

And there they are. Coming from the same direction as the vampires but so starkly different it’s almost violent. Encased in a soft brightness; so white it fades blue at the edges of his eyes. Bathed in moonlight — which he could have _sworn _was over at the other edge of the room just a moment ago. 

The long, snowy-haired man and the three armored fae at his back aren’t his first of the faerie folk — Garrus has that honor and seems very happy that’s so. But Garrus is new-world. He’s waistcoats and tight jeans and obviously-enjoys-the-mortal-concept-of-hair-gel. He’s nothing like their new guests.

Who look like they’d be more at home at a Renaissance Faire than among the motley gang gathered. Unearthly beauty but in a way that _haunts _him when he closes his eyes. Like they’re burned into the backs of his eyelids because he never has and never will see something so breathtaking for the rest of his life.

Pale blue eyes sweep the room; land on Taylor and there’s a startled intake of breath no one else notices but them. So small, so reserved; yet strangely important. 

No one else notices because it isn’t _for _anyone else. It’s for them. He’d stake his life on it. 

And when the fae leader speaks that, too, is important. Because he’s definitely not talking to Taylor but that doesn’t mean he looks away.

“Are we the only ones summoned tonight, Tonya?”

Lady Smoke nods. “Time was of the essence in this particular matter, Elric. I sent out messages to those I could — those who I knew would come.”

Whatever she says is important enough to drag Elric’s focus away — to break whatever unseen tether was keeping them together. 

Taylor makes a note to ask Garrus what fae magic feels like; if it feels like being consumed, body and soul, by drowning moonlight.

“But isn’t it the point of a Beau-Keyes to give every community a seat at the table, so to speak?” Isadora interrupts. “You didn’t even bother summoning the Garden Coven, or the Mayor for that matter.”

_‘The Mayor?’_ mouths Taylor silently to Nik; but he’s focused on everyone around them. 

A long silence follows; bated breaths waiting for Smoke’s answer. Judging by her reply — slow and measured, each syllable carefully chosen and accounted for — it’s more thought than she would normally give to those in her presence.

“I would rather not incite the chaos and panic before its time. As it is such an outcome has already proven itself inevitable.”

_Chaos and panic._ Two words that _really _shouldn’t go together but always seem to. And during _Mardi Gras_ of all times.

Kristof is the first to move; gives a grunt under his breath and passes Cal just shy of slamming them together shoulder-to-shoulder to open the double doors leading out to the famous back gardens of the Beauregard-Keyes House.

_“Why can’t we stay here?”_ Taylor had asked before they left the Den — all messages sent and car being called up top. _“Why can’t they just come to us? Not like this place is very secret.”_

Not that he wanted to stay in the secret underground casino, but if this was there Lady Smoke conducted her infamous business then it was probably protected out her ass, right?

_“Because there’s certain neutral territories in place for gatherings of importance,”_ Cadence had taken on the duty of explaining, _“places of historical importance where ceremonies, councils, or conflicts are held.”_

_“So which one are we going to?”_

_“Ever heard of _P. G. T. Beauregard?”

The Beauregard-Keyes House was everything they needed. It was big, important, and tied to half a dozen (or more, admittedly he zoned out when Cade started to sound like just another tour guide) important supernatural events or figures. 

The museum was run by mortals — whether they were ‘in the know’ or not didn’t really matter. All that mattered was that every figurehead in the city contributed to its maintenance.

Turns out there’s more to maintain than just a fresh coat of paint and a trimmed lawn. 

They pour out into the garden in their tightly-knit groups and factions. Lady Smoke subtly tries to keep Vera at her side and Vera not-so-subtly stays away — keeps by Cal and Taylor without regret.

Unbidden the guards behind Elric reach up and out. Stretch their fingers skyward as if to take the very stars in their hands. They very well could; Taylor believes. 

The stars stay in their celestial homes but what cloud cover there is parts in a way that definitely isn’t natural. Shines the light of the heavens down upon them all and casts their shadows in a dozen different directions at their feet. 

What Taylor first mistakes for a too-bright glare in his eyes soon begins to move; reveals itself as threads glowing, thrumming. The fae arc their hands and throw along the path of invisible shooting stars; they toss the threads from where they stand, to one another, to where modern civilization meets the horizon.

In the end they’re left under a dome of magic so powerful it rings in Taylor’s skull. Makes him work his jaw to pop his ears caught in the pressure. 

Not just _any _maintenance — _magical _maintenance. 

And though the glimmering shield fades to lowered arms everyone knows it’s still there; hovering invisible over their heads, guarding them. 

He offers a silent prayer out to the universe, just in case. _Please, please let it be enough._

All eyes fall expectantly to Lady Smoke. 

The silence that follows isn’t just awkward, it’s downright _goosebump ridden secondhand embarrassment nightmares_ worthy. How it always is when people who are supposed to have all the answers, who are never without something to say, find themselves at a loss. 

“I’m sure I am not the first to say this — and with our legacies intact I know I will not be the last — but those who stand here tonight know by experience or reputation that this is not your ordinary community. We are a community of survivors.”

Something about her words earns a reverent bow of nearly every head. Only Katherine looks around with the same curiosity as Taylor — and when their eyes meet the unspoken answer is obvious.

They’re the only two outsiders. Vampire, fae, werewolf, witch; all of them locals — the city built on the bodies of their ancestors. A will to live not even Mother Nature could wash away.

“Come Hell and high waters.”

“Come Hell and high waters.” Ryder whispers beside him; voices echoing the sentiment around the garden.

“Come Hell and high waters.”

“Come Hell and high waters.”

It’s an invocation that wraps their different beliefs under one sky — just like they are now. The weight of it staggering and important.

Lady Smoke continues; “_Mardi Gras_ may not be sacred to the rest of the world any more but we of New Orleans know a different celebration. It is a prosperous time; our version of a bountiful harvest. And as such there were laws put into place upon the founding of both the supernatural and mortal communities — laws that ensured, even in times of conflict and strife, that there would always be a ceasefire.”

The looks chanced at Isadora and Elric aren’t very subtle; nor do the immortals seem bothered by it. Maybe it’s nice to have confirmation that it actually happened — that whatever rules were penned down were done so with the future in mind. 

“I know I didn’t leave a good barbecue fer a history lesson,” mutters Kristof. 

“No,” she answers, “you didn’t. You were called here because you swore an oath in blood to the Accords; to uphold them yourself and ensure they are passed down through the generations.”

_Probably against his will,_ Taylor thinks. 

“You sayin’ I haven’t?”

“What she is _saying,_ Jensen, is that the Accords have been broken in some form or another.” Isadora’s careful, grandiose personality gives way to the pressure of insistence. “Aren’t you, Smoke?”

Tonya nods.

Elric speaks next. “This is to do with the mysterious deaths surrounding the festivities, then.”

Isadora’s teeth grind audibly. “The death of my father.”

“And the Shifter, Denna.”

Octavia’s eyebrows shoot up. “I thought those were coincidences.”

“This town wasn’t founded on coincidences.”

“Nevertheless,” Elric’s monotone keeps passions from running on sharp tongues, “their passing lies outside of celebration’s given time. There are no rights given to us to act.”

“On the contrary; my daughter was attacked the night following the late Señor de la Rosa. I’m a mother first —” — Vera very nearly interrupts with a red rage in her face, _nearly _— “— and a businesswoman second; and would expect any here to offer me the same chance at justice for mine own.”

Judging by the look on Isadora’s face the fine line that turns _justice _into _vengeance _has already been crossed. “How very _generous _of you, Reimonenq.”

Now that the discussion has taken a turn for the violent Kristof seems all too eager to get in on the action. The way he practically bristles with anticipation. Taylor thinks back to the trophy room in his cabin — wonders where the hell he’s going to find the space for another mounted victory.

But something just isn’t right. All of the leaders gathered have motive to go on the offensive.

All but one.

And that might just work out in their favor; might just keep them alive. Because Elric doesn’t look like the type to lead the battalion — soldiers in armor aside.

“I doubt not your passion nor its intent, Tonya,” the fae lord finally speaks to the mother with his focus on the daughter, “not just as a leader but as a father. But it would be unwise not to ask the child what exactly happened.”

It’s not a question. 

Unlike her mother Vera very obviously isn’t a fan of being heard, of giving orders and watching atop an empire of her own making. She wilts under the scrutiny; must be truly desperate when she takes the risk of hoping her mother will step in on her behalf. 

_Yeah, like he’s gonna let that happen. _

“I was there —” not that he’s entirely happy to be looked at and _through _again but if it helps Vera then he’ll suffer it, “— so was our friend.”

Octavia crosses her arms over her chest with a snort. “Why ain’t I surprised this has somethin’ t’do with you?”

Ryder steps up — something cocksure like _“you got a problem with that?”_ on the tip of his curled upper lip — but doesn’t get the chance to say shit. Not when Elric holds a hand up. Is it magic that makes everyone fall quiet, or just the impermeable presence of him?

“‘Tis doubtful I am the only one curious as to where in this story you belong. Perhaps it is something we may all piece together in the here and now.”

Taylor’s laugh is short; pushed through his nostrils. “You and me both.”

Of course Ryder looks reluctant to let him keep talking — he can see the little vein in his temple throbbing as the Nighthunter scrambles for something to say before whatever Taylor says is somehow wrong and inevitably gets them into trouble. 

So in a very un-Taylor-like fashion he thinks before he speaks; says only what seems relevant to the attack in what has to be the most professional retelling of the night’s events he’s given so far. Doesn’t mention his headaches and the whole seeing-through-glamours thing.

By the end of it everyone has a series of very distinct impressions; Smoke now knows what happened after Vera left, Kristof couldn’t give a damn, Elric — well he looks like he’s just seen a new original performance by Shakespeare himself. 

The odd one out is Isadora; how her anger doesn’t seem to have a seat at the table. Not the same kind of anger Cadence used to mutilate a Minotaur, thankfully. But it’s old, and it’s not human anger, and there he is yet again knees knocking.

“Something to say, Izzy?” asks Cadence who had, up until then, been content in his silence. Maybe it’s a vampire thing — the way he notices. Would certainly explain the women shifting on their heels at their leader’s back.

“Merely entertaining the ways to pull out what the little mortal isn’t telling us while staying under Elric’s wards, Smith. Why — something to suggest?”

“Pull _what _now?” Thankfully dignity isn’t something he’s all that attached to.

Wouldn’t _now _be a great time to have a bodyguard? Oh, wait.

There he is half-stepping in front of Taylor like always. How many times does it take to turn an action into a habit, again? Surely they’ve passed it by now.

“Can’t say I’m a fan of what you’re implyin’, Isadora.” Ryder’s voice a low warning growl.

“Nor am I.” Not that it stops the barest flicker of doubt from finding home on Elric’s pale brow. “Why would you assume the young man lies?”

“Hi — _still here?”_

“Taylor wouldn’t lie about something like this,” comes Vera to his defense, “and I was _there _for most of it. It came out of _nowhere._ None of us could have anticipated — or even _imagined…”_

Isadora scoffs. “Where shall I begin to dispute; his claims at being nothing but an innocent who keeps tripping into the messes of a secret world? Or that the creature he describes — no doubt fiction exacerbated by terror — is one even _I_ have not come across in my many lifetimes?

“Or—should that not be _enough_—that I struggle to tie together _my father,_ one of the great and powerful men who built this city from the swamp beneath your feet, a half-witch in self-imposed exile, and two _ignorant _mortals; if we’re to take _that _farce as truth.”

You know an argument is a convincing one when even _you _believe it, maybe just a little, despite obviously knowing otherwise. Not that he’ll shoot his credibility in the foot and give her a hand for being smart. 

Smart — and cautious. Still grieving. Taylor and his mom aren’t the best example of tight-knit familial bonds but he still loves her; would do anything for her. He can’t even fathom how it would feel to live more than an average lifetime with her, maybe even more than two, and then suddenly… suddenly _lose _her. 

“There’s no doubt in my mind the target was my daughter,” Smoke corrects her — doesn’t leave room for grief-ridden argument, “and when it sensed easier prey, diverted its hunt to the mortals.”

“Where is the other?” asks Octavia. 

“In the hospital,” Ryder raises a hand before anyone even chances interrupting him, “and before anyone gets their rich panties in a bunch I took all the precautions. Only the docs in the know are takin’ care of her condition.”

_Well that would’ve been good to know earlier._

Elric quickly steers the group back on course — the first time his hollowing voice sounds anything more than stagnant; with a barely-there waver of concern, fear.

“Imagination may stretch the truth, but we would be remiss as speakers for our communities not to consider that what was seen was indeed real. That in this case truth has stretched the imagination.”

Kristof growls, shakes his head firmly. “No fuckin’ way; it’s impossible.”

“Judging by the account — I would say otherwise.”

“Then yer head’s finally full of fairy dust.” A remark obviously meant to incite some kind of irritation in the fae; but the only one left irritated is the Alpha whose baits go unbitten.

“I know what I saw.” Vera looks around; incredulous that no one seems to be the proper amount of scared. 

“How could you? There’s never been a true massacre like that of a bloodwraith summoned in your lifetime.” Isadora counters. But even in her doubt a shared look passes between her and Cadence; a memory they can both tell tales of — even if they wish they couldn’t.

Cadence inclines his head. “Some things you just can’t forget. You of all people should know that, Iz’.”

“And, hey — hey over here!” Taylor keeps snapping his fingers until both of their ancient gazes are on him. Probably not the smartest idea to be sure but he’s learning from the _Nik Ryder School of Bad Choices._ “Yeah, hi, you’re kind of missing the point here.

“Even if we _are _wrong, even if we _don’t _know what’s out there —” he gestures out beyond the garden gates, “— whatever it is, is still fucking scary as hell. It still hunted me and my friend down, still killed your father and Denna. So what difference does it make?”

Elric gives a soft nod of approval. “He speaks sense. Best we prepare for that which we _can _defeat rather than an enemy of which we are unsure.”

Apparently his backing is the one to have. It gets Isadora off the confrontation train even if only for the moment. Gives Ryder a chance to join back in.

“Care to share, Lord Elric? Because I punched an awful lotta holes in that thing — I might as well have been usin’ foam darts.”

“Most things die when ya rip off their heads.” Kristof growls.

“Should you find yourself that close to a true bloodwraith, it is not the creature who will perish.” warns Elric, and he chooses to ignore Kristof’s mumbled argument to continue; “The power of the creature comes from two places: the black artist which summoned it and the malevolent soul summoned. The price to call such a being unto the living realm is steep… the bargainer and holder of its leash already surpasses the power even a renowned Nighthunter might possess.

“Yet even when their wellspring — the life force tying together spirit and master — dries up, the creature will remain. Mindless, purposeless, with only its nature to slaughter to fuel it. And more oft than not that is more than enough.”

Tonya’s biting tone stings with impatience. “Since you have so much knowledge, Lord Elric, perhaps you have some on how to rid our city of the thing before it gets that far.”

“Find the reason for which it was birthed into this world — that which it hunts for — and, ideally, destroy it.”

“Do the damn thing’s job for it?”

“Confront the lesser of the evils at work.” He corrects. 

“How do we know it isn’t done — that it hasn’t already killed who it needs to before the spell ends?”

They couldn’t _possibly _be that lucky, could they? No, of course not.

Because Taylor’s been so fixated on the play of moonlight on Elric’s ethereal features that he notices right away — before anyone else — when a cloud passes over and obscures the glow. 

Only there aren’t any clouds above — there haven’t been since Elric’s guards wove their warding magic.

“It’s not done.” He croaks out; might have even gone unheard were he not in the presence of some _very_ keen ears.

Ryder’s frown is worried. “How d’you know, Rook?”

He points to the rapidly descending figure in the sky. 

“Because it’s, uh, right there.”

With a swipe of its skeletal hand the bloodwraith tears through the wards of light; a cobweb — a mere nuisance. 

It’s upon them.

* * *

The air on his tongue tastes burnt — but there is no fire. 

It smells like the sheet metal factory his school took a field trip to in the eighth grade. _Who lets a bunch of prepubescent dumbasses visit a sheet metal factory,_ he’d wondered. How that hadn’t been the first thing the administration asked themselves he still didn’t understand. 

But it didn’t take long for one such dumbass — Steve-something, maybe — to catch sight of some in-law relative and convince them to let him and his friends try out the band-saw.

The trip was supposed to be a lesson in ‘shop and the trade jobs. Instead it turned into a fun biology lesson. They all learned a lot about reattaching severed fingers that day.

Strange the things you think of moments away from death. His life isn’t flashing before his eyes; in fact he’s not even thinking about experiences that are his own. 

No, he’s thinking about dumb Steven and the Sheet Metal Incident. 

_What the literal fuck?_

On tonight’s special episode Taylor has two options: get clawed in two by the bloodwraith’s talons, or have garden gravel for dinner. Only this particular game show doesn’t let _him _choose — oh no, no — hasn’t anyone been paying attention? That would be simple; logical. 

There’s no place for that here. 

Not anymore.

The stale sweat stitched into the inner lining of Nik’s coat makes him want to wretch. Or maybe that’s his stomach finally joining in on the action.

He tries to look up; out. To see what’s going on despite the throbbing where they collided with the earth. _“Don’t, Taylor,”_ whispered into his ear and his face buried into that supple leather collar instead.

Their hearts are beat together erratically, one trying to out-pace the other. That won’t matter if they actually end up on the outsides of their ribcages. But the fact that it’s beating — it’s a short-lived relief.

_“Katherine!”_

_Oh god, that sounded like_ — “Cade —”

“Head down, dammit!”

“But what if —”

“Now ain’t the time to fuckin’ question me!”

Taylor squeezes his eyes shut. Makes the blood pound through his veins faster, faster. Every ounce flooded with adrenaline and _very late_ for wherever it wants to be.

But nothing, not even Ryder’s authority, can stop him from almost seizing in panic at the screams that fill the air.

Echoing cries — something ripping, hot and wet and the crunch of bones so loud and visceral they may as well be his own — that shift like the moon into feral howls.

Wrenching his cheek away from the path — little crumbs, pebbles of gravel digging into his cheek like blunted fingernails. It’s enough for him to see just over the crook of Ryder’s shoulder. To witness the mass of silverlight fur and muscle that steps a long and large hind paw just inches away.

There’s no mistaking the enormity of muscle that is Kristof — though there’s nothing in what he can see of the wolf within that even resembles the Alpha in his human form. Maybe a scar here and there that bled through the change — maybe the almost cocky snap of its teeth towards the bloodwraith beyond.

He can’t see them, Cal and Octavia, but he knows they’re there. Feels the tickle of tail fur just shy of the shell of his ear; musk of the primal hunt thick and dense in their coats.

Not that he wants to but Taylor can imagine their enemy now — that same cast-from-Hell grin on rotting skeleton teeth. When it shrieks and waves its arms like it means to tear away the very veil of reality with every stroke the wolves waste no time nor chance. 

They lunge as beasts; as one.

Above him Ryder sees something he can’t. Digs the balls of his boots into the ground and scrambles to haul them both up together.

“Move—move—_move dammit!”_

The Beauregard-Keyes Garden is in chaos. 

One creature — more than _just _the ability but the _drive — _to uproot vines, spread decay through hedges and let fungi spiderweb up the trunks of trees. It’s everything that happened in the cemetery but on a grander scale. 

The bloodwraith is stronger than it was before. And it doesn’t look like it’s done gaining power just yet. As though it wants to live up to Elric’s foreboding. 

“Taylor!”

Just as Vera calls out she’s yanked back; painfully so by the looks of it. Turns around to look at her mother with indignant argument but _now is not the fucking time for their fucking family problems, Vera. _

Just as soon as she lets her daughter go Lady Smoke peels off her gloves; no ceremony about it, letting the expensive fabric fall to the ground with the rest of the trampled things.

One of Elric’s guards. The younger-looking of Isadora’s ladies. He hadn’t even noticed them before. And the bloodwraith had had time to kill them _both _before Nik could get him to stand? 

They were fighting a losing battle. Holy fuck.

The remaining two armor-clad fae stand in front of Elric with no doubt the same determination as their fallen comrade. They, too, are ready to stand until they have stood their last. 

“Iz’ _stop this madness!”_

Nik forces Taylor behind the blackened, withered remains of what he could recall was a neatly-trimmed hedge. The heavy breathing beside him makes him jump — but it’s only Katherine; daggers long and sharp in her white-knuckled clutches. 

But when she glares it’s only at Ryder. “Where the hell is that crossbow of yours?”

“Gimme a sec to pull it outta my ass, Kathy!”

“Seriously?! You’re snarking me _now?!”_

Taylor’s ready to tell them both to shut up or fuck off when Isadora’s voice rasps almost as loud as their enemy.

_“Let me go you insolent…!”_ It’s all he gets before she dissolves into tongue-twisting Spanish. But that’s more than enough to see Cadence holding the woman back with arms around her torso. 

No, not just a woman — a creature of vengeance; a fury in black ready to spill whatever blood the malevolent conjuring has as payment for her fallen.

For the other vampiress weeping huddled at their feet.

“That abomination killed my father, now my daughter! I will see it ground to dust before it takes the rest of my family from me!”

“You won’t live long enough to get the chance!”

And like it seeks to prove Cadence right the wraith draws the chaos back in; cranes its spinal column as a neck and drops its jaw so low what little decayed muscle holds it together snaps — threatens to send it comically falling to the ground to be trampled on.

There’s no way something so thin should be able to take on even one of the werewolves surrounding it. But it does. In the same way it shouldn’t be able to send the large black wolf flying through the air like it was nothing more than a stuffed toy and not enough packed muscle and power to snap the tree it collides with in half near the roots.

Taylor fixates, horrified, as the wolf struggles — twitches and convulses, trying to stand, to haul up, to do anything more than lay there exposed and injured. When its eyes roll up and back with one last involuntary twitch, he knows which one of them it is.

“CAL!”

“Shit—Ryder—_don’t let him go!”_

But there’s no fucking way he’s going to be held back now. Not when another high-pitched yelp echoes along the brick garden walls as the brown wolf—_Octavia_—tries to catch herself on her front paw; feels it twist and snap as no more than a twig.

Taylor’s fast — darts out while trying to keep low with dread filling the cold emptiness in his gut because _fuck Cal isn’t moving he’s not moving oh god oh godohgod —_

And sure, Nik is faster. Nik will always be faster. Every time he’s had the reflexes and the forethought to be smart, to keep Taylor out of as much harm as he can. Does the same, now, when he locks a rugged hand around his charge’s slender wrist. 

But his mistake is expecting Taylor to yield — he doesn’t. Nik grabs harder. Taylor yanks his arm away. Feels something _shift _under his skin — an all-encompassing throbbing pain — then the numbing sting of pins and needles that make it easier for him to care more about Cal than himself.

_“Get back here Taylor!”_ Ryder shouts; but it’s lost on the hallowed gust of wind that precedes the enormous shadow of Kristof the wolf skidding aside; disarmed, conquered, forgotten.

He’ll process _‘big, big wolf; large dog man’_ later — if there _is _a later. Skids to his knees and tries to, uh, shit. He’s never even had a dog let alone figured this shit out. Just ends up following what comes naturally; cradling the large onyx head to keep it from rolling off to the side too harsh and giving light smacks to (what he hopes are) Cal’s wolf-cheeks.

“Cal — Cal c’mon wake up. Open your eyes Cal please. _Please!”_

Distantly yes; Nik _is _still yelling for him to find a place to hide — to come back to the safety he can provide for as long as he can provide it. But Taylor — Taylor got Cal involved in this mess; offered him a place to go and maybe Cal felt obligated to help keep him safe because of it?

_First Kristin — now Cal._ There shouldn’t even _be_ a first, or a list to begin with. And it’s starting to crush him from the inside-out.

There’s a victorious screech into the night and Taylor chances a terrified look back — expects to see the thing advancing on him in the same way it had back in the cemetery.

Only it isn’t. Instead it advances on the prone Kristof’s scarred back with the hunger of the void in its empty eye sockets. 

“Away from him, demon!”

Sweat and tears may sting in Taylor’s eyes but he _swears _he sees Lady Smoke advancing at the wraith’s back — cloak billowing behind her like some epic cinematic entrance. 

It’s weird that no one’s trying to stop her or keep her under the safety of cover, right? He’s not the only one thinking that? Oh, he is? Well shit. 

Not to mention the fact that without her gloves she looks like she’s somehow missing part of her villain’s ensemble. Definitely not as terrifying as three oversized werewolves. 

But whatever Smoke has planned — it’s a good enough plan to keep her from being told to run and hide. To keep Vera at her back; her left arm equally bare, but no such confidence in her eyes as that of her mother.

You’d think she stares down near-mythical possessed-skeleton assassins every day or something.

Before the bloodwraith can descend on Kristof, a flash of light as bright as the sun behind snowclouds lands in the space left; distances them and makes it recoil with warbling hisses and claws up in a previously unseen attempt at protecting itself.

Elric doesn’t give it time to recover; hurtles another of the miniature suns up and over; this time lets it land so close the burning smell in the air grows hot and smoky — like Kristof’s beloved barbecue.

_“Go,”_ he commands the soldiers at his back, _“protect her!”_

There’s a shudder in the furry mass beneath his touch — brings Taylor’s attention back to Cal who whimpers in pain. But being in pain means he’s alive. Alive is so much better than the alternative.

“Cal — c’mon Cal please — I can’t carry you alone.”

If he doubts for a second that the wolf may not be able to understand him that’s dashed when yellow eyes dimmed and glassy flick up to look at him. He feels the shudder of canine breath and the way his body trembles at his injuries. But Cal’s alive, and knows he’s there, and that’s something.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up; a warning not to let his guard down. Instinctively he knows the thing at his back isn’t the bloodwraith — can hear it hiss and wail far back behind him — but doesn’t expect the face who rounds to join him, either.

Elric’s pale hands glow; the magic at his fingertips an undulating gradient of warm colors that make his skin look — if only for a moment — human. 

“Your valiance is understood, but you must go.” 

He gapes at the fae offended, _angry._ ”I’m not leaving him!”

“Go to your protector.”

“I said no!”

“You cannot hope to protect yourself, let alone your companion.”

“Cool — heard you the first time — still ain’t gonna happen!”

This close he can see the difference between Elric’s features and his. The almost catlike tilt of his eyes, the pressed-down bridge of his nose. Features that remind him of Garrus — obviously.

From a distance the fae are radiant, striking things. Up close their grace sharpens, though; makes them beautiful in the same way a poisoned needle is beautiful. 

From the way they treat him it’s no secret that Elric has lived a long _long _time. So maybe its rare for him to be blatantly disobeyed. Taylor’s happy to show him what it looks like.

Maybe this will get the point across; “I’m not leaving him. So help me, or fuck off.”

Elric stares, unblinking, and wins the standoff only because his hands suddenly flare with colorless light; makes Taylor look to make sure Cal isn’t injured further. 

The giant wolf shudders, then lies still. But before he can accuse Elric of anything wicked the coarse fur starts to recede under their palms. The twitching muzzle and whiskers drawing back as, inch by inch, Cal’s familiar human form is revealed.

“He will be easier to carry as a man than a beast.” 

It makes Taylor almost sob in gratitude. _“Thank you.”_

But it’s still too much — too much weight for them to carry alone, too much blood revealed underneath the shrinking form. 

Taylor looks up in panic, sees Nik helping Katherine drag Octavia away — not to shelter, but out of the line of fire.

Instead its Cadence who disengages from Isadora and appears at their sides in a blur. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the help but they’re running out of offensive players.

“Smoke — she’s —”

“She’ll be fine —” — and there’s an unspoken _hopefully _tacked on there somewhere but Cadence doesn’t let it come to light — “—is he bleeding? Where is he bleeding?”

“Just pick him up so we can go!”

“If I just _grab him_ I could _break him.”_

_“Momma don’t!”_

Vera’s scream drags his attention away before he can help. Back to the fight where both of Elric’s guards struggle through bloodied lips to stand, to follow their orders and continue to fight —

— where Tonya reaches out with both hands as if to stop the advance of the bloodwraith and grabs it, instead.

He’s seen what touching that thing does to people. Sees Kristin’s fate in parallel with Tonya’s — or he expects to. 

She’s right there in arms’ reach; supple flesh and hot red blood. Her hands around the bloodwraith’s throat should mean nothing; should _do _nothing. But a shadow passes over the pair holding one another in petrified stillness; agony on both of their twisted faces. 

Whatever rolls through them both is all the way deep inside them. Deeper than bones or marrow. Leaves the wraith slack-jawed in a silent scream and Tonya shaking violently with all her rapidly-fading strength left in her hands.

_Her hands_ — where, touching, the air shimmers with heat. The same illusion on a hot desert road at noon. Only the smoke isn’t an illusion. Pungent, black — so thick Taylor’s eyes burn and sting even from across the garden.

It doesn’t have to force Tonya back. She collapses all on her own. Holds her hands close and captive against her breast but smoke isn’t a tangible thing and diffuses out despite her. 

Whatever she’s done — whether she meant to or not — the creature has changed. Pulls away from her in search of a better prey. Makes a choice not to take advantage of her vulnerability like it did the werewolf and pursues easier — better — prey.

It doesn’t need to have eyes to sweep a look across the garden. Greedy, hungry snarls on its fangs as it searches for what it seeks. 

Everything sort of flips on its head when its sockets fall on Taylor then sweep him by like he’s just another bush or tree. 

Whatever drives the thing, whatever it seeks, Taylor _isn’t it anymore._ No — judging by the way it stops and chokes out a wrathful howl at its new target in spite of its burning gored-out throat? 

Taylor notices. Elric notices. Hell even Katherine notices and she’s on the other side. Makes her cup her hands over her mouth and shout so hard her voice breaks—

_“CADE! RUN!”_

The bloodwraith lurches forward. Taylor’s defenseless, weaponless, but doesn’t let that stop him from throwing himself over Cal’s body like a shield with eyes shut tight.

A shriek. Fingers wrapping around his wrist. Then a familiar and totally inappropriate warmth in his gut — given the situation, of course.

_Home._

Without reason or warning he falls into slackened unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and critique would be, as always, fabulous. I’d really love to know what you think of the changes. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	12. I'm Very Much Not Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor’s very much in need of time to process everything going on. Luckily he’s not the only one feeling the pressure of it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** light sexual content, panic attacks, anxiety, mentions of dysphoria, sex aversion

It’s the second time he’s woken up in Nik’s apartment after fainting. Different from the last only in that this time he doesn’t have to figure out where he is, and it isn’t night time but probably somewhere around early morning judging by the pale sleepiness outside the window.

And something’s cooking. Something salty and greasy and enough to make his mouth water.

Taylor tries to sit up but _that’s _a bad idea he’s unfortunately awake to regret. Groans as he flops back down on the couch because his arms feel like he just finished holding up something heavy for hours and hours; like an elephant, or Krom.

This time is different too in that Nik isn’t waiting for him — not at first. But within seconds of Taylor grunted exhaustion there the man is, placing a steaming mug on the glass table.

“Take it easy, Rook,” he’s kind of glad he can’t see Nik’s face only because the softness is startling, and unfamiliar, and it makes his toes curl weirdly, “don’t get up until you have to.”

Well that sounds… yeah that sounds just peachy. He’s gonna do that.

“And before you ask,” Nik continues, this time while pulling a flannel blanket off the back of the couch and awkwardly draping it over Taylor’s middle, “Cal’s gettin’ patched up by Ivy downstairs, ain’t no one seriously injured besides Kristof — but he’ll recover. One’a Izzy’s girls and that first Lamrian soldier were the only casualties.”

_Damn, Nik knows him pretty well._ “And Smoke…?” He can’t help but wince at how his voice rasps and beats rusted iron at his throat.

“She’s in a bad way, but she’ll live. Helps to have some’a the best doctors in the city on her payroll. Vera’s downstairs.”

No doubt Nik knows he has more questions but he makes the choice for Taylor in not answering them — he catches the footfalls when the Nighthunter’s bare feet switch from old carpeting to the kitchen tile. The gas stove clicks off. Taylor’s stomach rumbles in reply.

“Smells good.”

“Thanks. I ain’t much of a cook but hangover food I can do better’n most.”

_Hangover food?_ “‘M not hungover.” He’d know if he was — really, he would.

“No, but I remember the first time I used magic — not well, either. Simple scrying spell had me achin’ for days after. I felt like I’d drunk like I was at a fancy people party but the only thing t’drink was prison hooch.

“So given what you tossed out — I figured I’d go for a whole spread just in case.”

He’s quiet after that; doesn’t seem to have anything more to say at least. Instead lets the sound of plates and utensils being pulled out and a pan rinsing under the sink fill the emptiness around.

That tea smells amazing. He can’t wait until he can lift his head up enough to drink it.

_And back the fuck up. Given _what _now?_

Taylor shoots up like the couch is a spring-loaded trap. Actually ends up shouting at the pain that runs through his veins icy and electric. Takes all the energy left in him and pushes it out to the tips of his fingers in order to hold on and keep himself from falling back down.

Nik looks at him with wide eyes and a mouth open ready to shovel in a forkful of hashbrowns. “Holy —”

The metal clattering on ceramic rings a thousand times louder than it should have and Taylor finally gets what Nik meant by hangover — he’s all too familiar with how bad they can get and this one is the worst of all. It even tastes like there’s cotton in the back of his throat.

Whether it’s luck on his part or instinct on behalf of his body he doesn’t collapse until Nik’s there with a hand to coax him back; keep him from what would no doubt be a mind-shattering stabbing pain from his collision with the couch arm. 

He doesn’t realize he’s broken out into a cold sweat until Nik’s there, sitting at his side, with a cool and damp cloth at his temples. “What the fuck did I just tell ya? Jesus — we’re gonna have to work out this ‘death wish’ thing you’ve got goin’ on.”

Everything is bright; so bright it hurts. Like his eyes are used to something darker, something…

A colorless light races across his blurred vision; fast as a speeding bullet before it’s gone. But the imprint of it remains.

“You said —”

“I _said _t’keep yourself horizontal.”

“No—no you —” His eyes sting; squeezing shut. Then the cloth is dragging down across the rest of his face and its such a tender, almost fond touch that he can’t tell if the full body shiver he breaks out into is from the gnawing pain at every nerve ending or from how unfamiliar he is with gentleness. 

Nik does him the kindness of waiting until he blinks his sight back. There’s that same worrying tick in his brow. 

“I’m not kiddin’, Taylor. Stay down. Can’t see you havin’ the energy to even breathe but we’ll take what blessings we can.”

Not that every breath isn’t actual torture. But he _is _breathing so — yes, blessings.

And thankfully Nik sees the unasked question all over his face. He’s getting good at reading Taylor — almost too good. No one’s ever read him like that before — he’s never given anyone the chance.

“I said what I said. Wouldn’t believe anyone tellin’ me if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes. And if you didn’t look like you were balancin’ on a rope over yer own grave I’d be impressed.”

_Impressed… _

“Though I’m a little pissed I have t’wait until you’re recovered to give you shit for lyin’ to me.”

_Lying…_

“But, hey, at least now we know you ain’t _really _defenseless,” his laugh actually sounds _relieved,_ “can’t say my protectin’ skills really hold up to throwing _fae grimfire.” _

_Fae…_ “Grim-_whatnow?”_

He can feel the warmth of Nik’s palm seep through the rag he leaves cupping Taylor’s cheek. Looks up bleary and confused and wishes he wasn’t as close as he was; wishes he didn’t have to see the surety ebb out of the Nighthunter’s gaze and leave a gaping void of confusion and something akin to fear.

Because if he didn’t Nik would probably have spared him with a little lie. Nothing big — just enough to ease his mind and give them both time to recover. But it’s just not possible now; now he’s _seen. _

Now he _knows _that no matter how many questions he asks now Nik doesn’t have an answer.

Still Nik falls into his old habits — tries to pull away and offer a non-consolation of “Never-you-mind” that Taylor doesn’t let him get away with. He shouldn’t have the strength to sit up, shouldn’t have the strength to breathe; yet he finds that and more. 

Finds the strength to grab Nik’s wrist and hold on for dear fucking life.

“What happened?” he chokes out. _What’s happening still?_

“You really don’t remember?” _Don’t make me be the one to tell you._

“Nik.” _If you don’t, who will?_

Nik looks away with a growl, mutters “fucking hell…” under his breath while wringing fresh water out of the rag before he puts it back like a compress on Taylor’s forehead.

“What’s the farthest back you got? Anythin’ about the Beau-Keyes?”

“The meeting, yeah, and the bloodwraith was behind Carlo’s and Denna’s murders.”

“And you ‘member it comin’ after us?”

How could he forget? The way it tore through the fae wards like they were wet paper. Taking out three werewolves that did about as much as terrier puppies. Vera’s mother — Lady Smoke — injuring it somehow… but not for long. 

And then…

“It —” he swallows around his dry tongue, forces himself to speak, “— it came after us. Me — Cal — Cade.” _Cade, the wraith has sets its sights and claws on Cadence._ “Ohgod—did it…?”

Nik shakes his head. “No, no the vamp’s down with the rest. Still don’t know _what _that’s all about. But is that all you got; nothin’ else?”

Taylor’s eyes say everything for him. But it’ll take more than that pitying look cast on him to understand what’s going on.

Nik knows that.

“Kathy’s screamin’, and I look up — see you actin’ like some dumb-fucking human shield over Lowell and that bastard skeleton barrelin’ towards you. Lord Elric tried to get up a shield, I think; felt that in the air. Protection magic’s got a funny taste to it.

“Then you’re up, got a hand thrown out and there’s bona fide grimfire comin’ outta you like a stupid idea.” —_he’ll be mad and argue that later_— “I’ve only ever read about the stuff but it couldn’t have been anythin’ else. Blacker than the night sky and burnin’ bright at the edges and so fuckin’ powerful it set the thing on fire and sent it heading for the hills.”

No he very much doesn’t remember any of that. That would definitely be something he would remember — or would _like to_ if he had any choice in the matter. 

He lifts his trembling hands enough to look at them without raising his head. Is glad for the way Nik holds at least one up and gently scrapes what looks like ashy embers from a bonfire from the meat of his palms. At even the smallest wince the Nighthunter pulls back, inspects him for injuries; but it hurts the way a scalding bath hurts. 

Luckily his bodyguard has adopted a _‘might as well finish’_ attitude. “It took a shitton of Elric’s strength to stop you and you were out cold soon after. Funny enough he’s lived a good three centuries and he’s never heard’a humans bein’ able to throw grimfire neither.”

“Just like —” another hard swallow, the lump in his throat building into a boulder, “— like a human who can see through glamours?”

Nik’s laugh is rueful, hollow. “Yeah, like that.”

His hand is clean now, and Nik could very well let go but Taylor’s actually glad he doesn’t. Here in front of him there’s yet another thing he can do, another thing that makes him different—_strange, a target_—but Nik keeps holding on anyway. 

There’s so fucking few ways he can express his gratitude right now. Most of them he doesn’t even know how to describe to himself let alone act on.

Well… besides one. 

But _that_ definitely isn’t gonna happen. So he quips instead; “Now you know what I can do next time you sass me.” 

Nik’s eyebrows shoot up near to his hairline and a laugh draws out of him real, solid; full. None of this pitiful bullshit that’s been hovering on the edge of them since he woke up.

“Is that so?”

“Damn right.”

“Well look who got his words back only to be a lit’le shit with ‘em.”

As if to prove him wrong Taylor coughs again. “I was saving it for the right time.”

“Well, Rook,” —_damn why can’t he have the energy to smack him up the head?_— “you don’t wanna overextend yourself. Best to shut up now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Make me, then.”

_Taylor no. _

It’s the classic trope — the sassy ultimatum that fuels every notable young adult romance of the last few decades. And Nik Ryder may live in his own world (in a hole, probably) but he definitely doesn’t live under a rock. _Definitely _knows what _“make me”_ means in this particular scenario.

So why isn’t he regretting saying it? 

Moreover… why isn’t Nik defining some boundaries in their bodyguard-charge relationship by backing up and letting the space between them say all that needs to be said?

_More_-moreover; when did ‘holding his hand to wipe it clean’ turn into ‘interlocked fingers and clammy palms pressed together?’

Nik doesn’t need telling twice. And despite it being literally fucking impossible for either of them to have anticipated this particular scenario he’s grateful that he can’t taste any lingering whiskey on his mouth. 

Instead its salt and pepper; a little thing that tells him Nik is one of those people who can’t wait until something is done cooking to sneak a taste. What does he taste like, he wonders. Probably fear, and caution, and _what-the-hell-is-happening-only-don’t-stop-long-enough-to-answer._

Nik pushes their braced hands together against the back of the couch. Holds himself up as his body hovers over Taylor’s and gets closer. He doesn’t feel crowded, though — instead… safe. Protected, maybe. 

Then there’s a crooked finger tilting his chin up and Taylor distantly wonders when he closed his eyes but doesn’t plan on opening them any time soon. Not with the way Nik seamlessly _protects _his lips. Not with the scratchy burn of coarser stubble niggling at the edges of his mouth; around his cupid’s bow and chin.

He chooses to attribute the tight knot in his chest to lack of oxygen — absolutely nothing else. But that excuse can’t last forever when the man above him pulls away so they both can breathe a little easier.

Judging by the clouded look in Nik’s eyes, though, he’s not the only one indulging that particular fantasy.

If he has any notion of turning _away _into _off,_ however, the free fist clutching his rumpled button-down is pretty damn convincing to the alternative.

Nik’s tongue draws a wet pattern over his lips. Short-circuits Taylor’s brain a _whole lot. _

_“‘Make me?’”_ rasps above him, a laugh and a taunt all in one.

“Okay.”

Their second connection is a little more forceful — a little more pushy. Taylor’s hand trying valiantly to slip buttons out of their holes but trembling too hard from weakness; from desperation. 

The inside of the couch sags. Nik makes himself comfortable atop his prone charge. _They’re really doing this, huh?_

They’re messy and uncoordinated. Having to pause for breathers at shorter and shorter intervals because it’s taking a lot out of him even to just lay there. His fingers have gone numb under Nik’s. That’s okay — he’s not using them much anyway.

All it takes is the barest tease of tongue — he’s just testing the metaphorical waters but Nik, no, Nik is ready to drown them both. Growls in a claiming, hungry way and takes everything he’s given. Licking inside at every ridge, the spaces between each tooth, the scar at the roof of his mouth from when little Taylor fell on his bike while enjoying a sucker.

Miraculously Nik’s voice permeates through the ringing in his ears; “You’re… so damn — _shit _Rook —” Thank god he’s not asking any questions because Taylor is definitely in no fit state to answer.

He’s tired and loose and everything feels a bit like a fever dream — _has he had dreams like this, he’s barely had time to sleep the last few days let alone time to _dream _about it_ — until there’s something real, like _really _real, pressing insistently at his inner thigh.

But maybe they can still salvage this. He _wants _to salvage it. Wants this moment to last however long it takes for everything to fall into place in the rest of his life like it has right here. 

So he pulls back — can’t very much, but there’s some give in the old couch and he’s thankful for it — tries to _show _rather than _tell. _

Only Nik doesn’t get the hint. Pushes his hips and that _something_ forward while tugging on Taylor’s tongue with soft teeth.

Then there’s that familiar flash of white behind closed eyes, panic tingling in his gut, and his palms pressing hard and firm into his own rapidly-beating chest as Taylor, confused to find himself sitting up, tries to breathe like a person not on the verge of freaking out.

_“Taylor — hey, calm down — it’s okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”_

No he’s not okay doesn’t Nik get that? How would someone with their eyes squeezed so tight they can feel the blood pounding in their temples be okay?

_“Just breathe.”_

He knows how to calm himself down, thanks very much! 

_“You’re not breathin’, Taylor. Come on — in the nose and out the mouth. Please…”_

It’s the way Nik’s voice cracks that brings him out of his head — out of the place where no one makes sense but him even if he’s not making sense at all. Makes him take a burning inhale—hold—and expel the air in his lungs all the way down to the bottom.

He refuses to feel guilty for the look that greets him when he opens his eyes; refuses to feel like he’s done something wrong in the guarded worry radiating like a shield off of Nik; now sitting on the other end of the couch — practically on the arm; practically off and far, far back.

It’s not his fault. Remember that, Taylor. _It’s not your fault._

He can’t speak. Nik chooses not to speak. Only silence between them as Nik dramatizes every breath until it’s almost instinct for Taylor to just follow suit. 

Not the best way to end the wow factor that was the last few minutes, but… 

Then there’s a hand hovering just in front of him — Nik at war with himself and the way he touches others, the way he wants to touch Taylor but doesn’t want him to run away. He doesn’t reach out to meet it. 

Nik takes the hint and backs off. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand almost angrily. 

_Shit—how long has he been wearing his binder? Every breath feels like agony right now. _

“I’m —”

“Nik —”

There’s barely a lag in the clack of their teeth meeting; jaws closing. He waits; stares at Nik and begs for him to start so he doesn’t have to. But he’s thinking the same thing. 

_Let him talk first. So I know I’m not an idiot right now. _

Only they don’t. And there’s nothing comforting in the quiet anymore. It’s thick and hangs around them uncomfortably. Makes them shift in their skins. Makes them want to tear every layer off to feel less odd; less unwanted.

Taylor’s so wrapped up in himself he doesn’t realize Nik’s turned tail until the door is shut behind him.

Then, without someone else’s breathing to ease his own, Taylor panics.

* * *

Only when Vera’s done everything she can possibly think of to fill the quiet — made herself a cup of tea, finished washing and putting away the pan and dishes, she even organized the mess left over from the protection spell on the coffee table — does she do the thing.

_The thing;_ where you clear your throat because you don’t want the person to think you’re pressuring them into talking even though you totally are. 

Why else would she have come up here? It doesn’t make sense any other way.

Taylor tries to ignore it; and might very well succeed, too, if Vera wasn’t just as much — if not more — passive aggressive as him. 

The third time she actually strains herself so much she ends up hacking it out with a cough.

It makes him snap. “Maybe I don’t want to talk about it — I’m not obligated to share my every thought around here.”

“No, you’re not,” she agrees, “but maybe it’ll help.”

“It won’t.”

“You sure?”

“It’s not some big thing, Vera. No matter how big he made it out to be.”

What had happened downstairs? Had Nik burst into the _Shift,_ red-lipped and still exuding arousal so heavy Cal could smell it from a mile off, only for him to complain about his blue balls? _No, that’s not right. Nik’s better than that. He…_

_He tried to help._ He backed off and he tried to help. Gave Taylor a little too much space but how was he supposed to know that? It’s not like they’d led up to a terrifyingly _epic _make-out session with a discussion on what to do when Taylor inevitably backed out. When things got physical — as they always did — with more than just lips and tongues and teeth.

Vera adjusts her grip on her tea, keeps her gloves from letting the mug slide out of her hands. “Well for starters — he didn’t say anythin’; well, anythin’ about you. Just something about paying back that Ivy chick and hightailin’ it like the Devil himself was on his heels.”

Given what he’d seen of that bloodwraith? It may very well be.

“Then,” she continues, “Katherine said he’s sorta prone to all that stompin’-out broody behavior. So no one thought anything of it. But when you didn’t come down right after…”

“I’m not really in the mood to socialize.”

“I get that.”

“So why are you still here?” He wants to take it back the second it slips form his tongue; sharp and cruel where he’s feeling soft and vulnerable. She’s just trying to help; doesn’t deserve that kind of retaliation.

And maybe she knows he doesn’t mean it because she isn’t getting angry. Fidgeting a lot more — but Taylor’s got a feeling that has more to do with her own unique discomforts than his attitude.

It’s enough time for his mind to wander in the quiet before Vera speaks again. Drags him out of the memory of strong fingers holding him still; not _trapped _but _protected._

“There isn’t a single thing wrong with not wantin’ to be touched, Tay’.”

_God she doesn’t know what she’s talking about._ “Uh-huh.”

“Just like there’s nothin’ wrong with wantin’ it even when you can’t have it.”

He has to look up to make sure she’s not just saying it to placate him. But Vera’s staring at her own hands and the way her thumb strokes up and down the steaming cup. The same way Nik had held onto him; desperately, fervently — with longing.

And now she’s the one with shaky breaths and a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. He doesn’t have to see them to know it. “Not like last night was much of a good example, but you saw some’a it. That fear when a Reimonenq waves her hands around. Kept me from bein’ an active talker when I was young that’s for damn sure.

“The Reimonenq Curse is as much a curse on the bearer as on everybody else. It hurts whoever we want to hurt — but hurts those we love, too. I can’t…” — she has to swallow down her words before trying them again — “I can’t tell you how badly I wanna be held sometimes. Without these _stupid _gloves in the way all the time.”

He’s almost afraid to ask but doesn’t know what else to say. “You have to wear them all the time?”

“To keep from killin’ everyone I hold near and dear, yeah.” She pulls a hanky out of her jacket pocket and uses that, rather than her gloves, to wipe at the tears threatening to ruin her wing-tips. “You know — Cookie nearly caught me without ‘em once. She was jus’ tryin’ to help me in after a night in the rain. 

“I screamed at her… so loud — and _so _hard. She didn’t talk to me for a whole month. Come to find out she thought I was _mad _at her, that I had some sorta phobia. And all I was doin’ was trying to keep her safe.”

Whatever had happened they had made up — that much was obvious. But the hurt, the pain and all the things Vera had told herself about how other people didn’t have to deal with that kind of self-torture, that hadn’t gone away. No amount of forgiveness _could _make it go away.

And it leaves him tongue-tied. Unable to empathize, but sympathy just didn’t feel _enough._

“What you’re going through ain’t the same, Tay’, I know that. But nobody ever _really _feels the same about stuff as anyone else; not in the specifics. All I know is I can’t ever hold the hand of someone I really, really like. Can’t ever hold their face when I kiss ‘em, or do all the terrible, nasty things kids get up to behind high school bleachers.”

“Okay — was that necessary?”

“Sure was — because you get it. On some level; you get it.”

This is where they’re gonna have to talk about it, isn’t it? He really hoped they wouldn’t get here — that Vera had enough pent up to share until the next inevitably bad thing happened and brought them back to their ghoulish reality. 

Frankly he’s a little insulted that bad things never happen when its _convenient._ But that’s the stress talking… probably.

The pilling cotton on his shirt is really fucking interesting, and no doubt desperate to hear what he has to say. He’s not talking to Vera, he’s talking to the cotton.

“I didn’t enjoy Junior Prom enough to want to go a second time. So instead of wasting all that money on clothes and corsages and a dumb limo, my datefriend and I decided to rent a hotel room in the city. He was a middle child of five and my mom was one of those ‘hands above the covers’ types. So we wanted to get away, you know? Be just ‘us.’

“If I have to help you figure out where this is going, let me know.”

Vera shakes her head politely. Thank fuck.

“I’d played around with, like, identity and stuff before. I was always into everybody but never really liked labels for myself. And he, uh, he knew I wasn’t a fan of being called his ‘girlfriend’ or even, like, ‘his girl’ so he was really good about that. Until we got to the inevitable.

“Don’t think he forced me or anything, Vee. I was into it — or thought I was — until I really _really _wasn’t. Hand-holding and making out and all that was awesome. But the second he started touching me elsewhere I freaked out. He—I—we both called it first time jitters and tried again. 

“So picture this, right? He’s halfway in me, one hand squeezing my boob like he’s climbing a rock wall in gym, and I freak out so hard I punch him in the face.” 

Vera covers her mouth with her mug; tries to school her features to look ever the passive listener but Taylor — no, he’s laughing at the memory. “Justifiably my mom was about to go apeshit on him when she came to pick me up and saw the blood on the sheets but it was just from his nose.

“Safe to say we broke up after that. It was a mutual thing, we still went to Amy Mallory’s graduation bonfire together but, like, just as friends. And it wasn’t until a bit later in college that I started actually, uhm, like _questioning _stuff about myself. Did the soul-searching thing and got to where I am — where I’m _happy,_ mind you. But…”

“But the high school sweetheart remains your only foray into sex.”

“Got it in one.” Tries to laugh it off with a couple of finger-guns her way but all he gets is a teeny tiny smile. Which, given the heavy topic of conversation, makes sense.

She clicks her tongue several times — debates not saying whatever it is — decides to just go for it instead; “And when I connect the dots between this _very personal story_ and what made Ryder skedaddle…”

_Ah shit._

“Uh, kinda. Took us both by surprise and there’s nothing wrong with, like, his _body _reacting the way it did —” he actually snorts, “— actually it was a little flattering given how many times I’ve pissed him off since we met. But I panicked. Like, _bad._ And I don’t even think I could’ve built up the courage to tell him that story either. Not that I got the chance before he was gone.”

There are echoes of his old therapist in the way Vera crosses her legs at the knees, folds her gloved hands in her lap. 

“If you _could _tell him, _would _you?”

“Yeah I’ve got _no clue._ Like I said — _definitely _didn’t see any of what happened, happening.”

He knows what she’s going to say before she even says it. Has echoes of his old therapist in that aspect, too. The way she gives him a level gaze and waits for him to stop twitching and talk to her rather than his shirt. 

“Guess that depends on whether or not you’d like it to happen again.”

“Vee — I have _way too much going on_ to stop and think about how much I’d like Nik Ryder’s tongue down my throat again.” _Well, that’s one way to answer your own question._

Even Vera looks surprised at his admission. Something they’re going to deal with, he’s sure, but it also brings them back to the startling reality of what continues to chase them… and the answers that continue to elude them.

“I actually… well I mean I wanted to see how you were holdin’ up but that wasn’t the only reason I came up here.”

She looks embarrassed to have said it — to want to confide in someone other than the mother she’s estranged from. From the help she can provide. And he knows that particular kind of damage because his search for someone to really and truly confide in had only ended a few days ago. No one should have to hold on to their demons for that long.

He reaches out and their hands slide into one another’s easily. Old familiarity between new friends. 

“I’m here for you, you know that.”

She nods, speaks through tightly pursed lips. “It’s just… I feel a bit crazy sayin’ it out loud.”

“Preaching to the choir.” They laugh; not for long. Not with real humor. 

And it takes her a few moments to muster up the courage but he’s as patient as promised. Squeezes her hand every time it feels like she’s about to speak and continues to hold on when she changes her mind.

Whatever this is it feels like the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“You know you don’t _have to_ —”

“It’s the bloodwraith.” Like she was waiting for something to happen — a trigger of sorts. Something to squeeze the air from her lungs, the words from her gut. “I… I thought it was a fluke, y’know, the first time back on the streets. Since I’d been away from here for so long and just taken the literal walk down memory lane.

“But it happened again at the garden. And now I don’t know what to think. What if—what if it’s _me?”_

“Vera —”

“What if I’m the problem, and not it? After what it did to Cookie —”

“Now, hold on —”

“— and my mom? I mean, I don’t know what I’m _capable of —”_

“Vera!” He doesn’t mean to shout but its the only way to get her attention. To grab her shoulders and clutch the fabric in his fists until he’s shaken her hard enough out of whatever thoughts are consuming her that she doesn’t dissolve into a swirling vortex of self-hatred.

There are tears in her eyes and Taylor wants nothing more than to wipe them away but knows he can’t. She blinks them down her cheeks anyway.

“I felt like I _knew that thing,_ Taylor. Somewhere deep down inside it… I knew it and—and it knew me.”

Not the confession he was expecting to hear. Which is almost a relief, actually, since it’s so _impossible _that he’s happy to talk her out of it.

“That’s not — that’s just crazy.”

Probably not the right word — makes her flinch away from his grasp. “I’m not crazy.”

“No, you’re not,” he tries to reassure, “which is how I know that’s not a thing. Like it’s just not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Uh, I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

“You’re still new to magic, to all this.”

“I don’t have to know magic to know a good person when I see one.”

This time her recoil isn’t just physical. The wall she puts up between them isn’t so much _seen _as _felt. _It’s cold, and hard, and he has a feeling Vera is painstakingly good at putting it up.

But he doesn’t want to make her regret opening up. There’s no feeling more isolating in the world.

So he tries again, takes a different path, “Don’t you think you’d _know _if you, I dunno, summoned that thing? You heard Elric — there’s no way you have that much hatred in you, enough to make the bloodwraith real.

“You couldn’t hurt a fly, Vera.”

The look she casts down at her gloves — through them to the hands hidden for good reason beneath? That tells a different story.

Confesses to him in a broken whisper; “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“No, I don’t,” but he won’t let her sink into this hole further, “but I don’t think anyone tearing themselves up this much over it would do something so terrible. So at least tell the others with me. If I can’t convince you… maybe they can.”

If she has any more to protest she’s too tired to try. Oh man has Taylor been there. And if it feels anything like the way it can with him she’s going to need something cheesy and greasy to make it all better. 

Does pizza even deliver to the _Shift? _

They descend together arm in arm. 

Taylor’s heart skips a beat when he sees Nik’s back turned away from the stairs. Suddenly reminds him of just what had happened and thank god he has something to distract him from thinking too much about it because Vera’s still dabbing her tears away at his side.

Katherine jerks her chin in their direction — causes Nik to turn and look at Taylor with a grim frown.

No, not at _Taylor._

“Good, you’re still here.” He nods to Vera, but no one else seems surprised by it. In fact they all carry the same heavy looks; the same solemnity and lack of at least scarce dark humor. “There’s somethin’ we gotta talk about and I don’t think you’re gonna like it.”

“You talkin’ to me?” asks Vera in surprise. He nods again.

“I just got back from seein’ Lady Smoke.”

She tenses beside Taylor; squeezes their arms tightly. “Is she—?”

“She’s still on watch, but she’s awake. More’n can be said for your other friend.”

“Get to the point —” likely she’s glad for something else to focus on than her worries about the bloodwraith, “— what does my mom have to do with this? Did she say somethin’?”

“Didn’ have to.”

Because Nik doesn’t seem the type to want to go into a long and detailed explanation about, well, anything either, it’s Katherine who finally spits it out; “Tonya’s lost her powers.”

A chill runs down Taylor’s spine and beside him Vera chokes down a sob.

_“What?”_

Katherine and Nik exchange dark looks. Another loop thrown their way — and this one worse than the last.

“The bloodwraith took away the Reimonenq curse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I initially had the next 3-4 chapters written by this point. Then last minute, meaning two days ago, I decided to scrap that and go a whole different direction. Lets hope it pans out!! Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	13. What Was Given Can Be Taken Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After her encounter with the bloodwraith leaves Lady Smoke without her cursed touch, Katherine sets out to organize a meeting with the only power in the city left uninterrogated: the Garden Coven. Taylor takes advantage of their time left hanging to finally visit Kristin’s hospital bed. There he finds a familiar face and finally gets an outsider’s perspective on the weirdness his life has become.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** hospitals, unconsciousness

“No wonder you’re a dead name in this town, Ryder. Can’t even follow simple orders. Didn’t I tell you to keep Vera _away _from here?”

“Harsh, Tonya — harsh.”

Vera shoves the Nighthunter aside and almost falls on her knees at her mother’s bedside. Apparently the bad blood that parted them ran a little thinner than the blood they shared.

He recognizes that face — remembers a similar look in his mother’s eyes when she was watching him from his own hospital bedside. Kind of understands the way Tonya Reimonenq tries to look at anything _but _her daughter.

“As if I wasn’t gonna come see you?” Vera can’t help but sound a little frustrated; a little broken. Takes in the thin black spiderwebbing of her veins they’ve all become a little _too _familiar with at this point. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“There’s nothin’ _lucky _about this, Vera.”

Her voice is thick with anger. It’s enough to pull her daughter out of her familial grief. Where she reaches up and Taylor helps her back to standing. Still she holds on to the railing of Tonya’s bed with a hard grip.

She looks her mother over head to toe. Flinches as she takes in the burn unit casts on her hands and forearms. The way her hair is no longer coiffed with a salt-and-pepper streak of refinement but now, instead, lays in disarray over the thin hospital pillows.

Just as her ID band says, the woman lying in bed is Tonya Reimonenq, nothing more and nothing less. Lady Smoke is no more than what her name implies — smoke on the wind.

Vera swallows down something else, maybe some fondness or affectionate word. Instead just lets her hand hover over the nearest cast-bound hand with hesitation.

“Kathy said you…” but the words get lost somewhere between her head and her mouth and she has to try again, “that the… the _thing,_ it…”

Even when Tonya physically turns her head away there’s no hiding it. Not in the monitors that start to beep louder on the other side of her, not in the numbers that jump erratically. Not in the lights overhead — unflattering things to everyone, really — that illuminate the shame in her dark eyes.

“I can’t feel it anymore.”

“Feel _what?”_

“The _connection,_ baby girl,” and there’s something a little manic in the way she looks at her daughter then, the way she reaches out but can’t touch, “the connection to our birthright. Always there and then…”

The words come out of Taylor unbidden; “Then gone like smoke.”

A tear falls down Tonya’s cheek. Dampens the pillowcase where it lands. Her vitals have slowed down now but the damage is done.

Expensive footsteps stop in the doorway brisk enough to turn their heads. To where a crisp and starched man fusses with a dark trench coat, practically wrenches it off of his shoulders and into the arms of an attendant passing in the hall.

His icy eyes land first on Tonya in bed and then sweep her guests — nothing short of critical, dismissive; borderline angry.

“Money can buy you a good room and unlimited care, Reimonenq, but it won’t buy you out of hospital rules.” He snaps, takes the white doctor’s coat from a different attendant as its given to him. 

Along with it a laminated badge: DIAGNOSTIC STAFF, TULANE MEDICAL CENTER. With AUTHORIZED VISITOR on a bright red sticker beneath it.

The doctor pushes through them carelessly — is already fixated on the clipboard of Tonya’s information when he growls out “Anyone who isn’t family get the hell out of my sight before I call security,” and he definitely isn’t kidding.

“Good to see you again, Doctor Ramsey.” 

He only looks up at his patient to see the condition of her arms and their bandages. “It isn’t a sentiment shared.”

Because they have no desire to stay and see what the doctor’s wrath _looks like,_ since it _sounds _violent enough, Taylor and Nik make their way out. Stop only when Vera turns hot on their heels.

“You should stay with her — you know, never know what could happen.” Nik mutters under his breath. He’s so unaccustomed to showing concern that it sounds almost sarcastic for a moment. “I just mean —”

“I know what you mean. But I ain’t doin’ any good standin’ here.”

Taylor reaches and their hands meet between one another. He squeezes her gloves with the same concern and support as he had at the _Shift._

“Nik’s right.”

But Vera is, at least on the surface, adamant. “No, Tay’. I’m useless in here. Out there I can—I mean we could—”

Neither of them miss the half-glance she nearly throws over her shoulder. 

“Stay,” Taylor tries again; feels her resolve crumble just a little — it’s enough, “we’re not even going far. And if anything changes you’re the first call. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Taylor knows he has no right to try and mend the holes in the Reimonenq family tapestry. That’s not even what he’s trying to do if he’s honest. But underneath all that anger he can _feel _the threads of regret Vera is trying desperately to hide. 

If something _did _happen she wouldn’t forgive herself. And that’s worse than feeling helpless.

When they finally find their way back to the front lobby (two wrong turns, five angry nurses, and a mentally scarring view of an old man’s ass later) Cal is sitting alone in one of the uncomfortable half-bench chairs. He’s pretending to be focused intently on the muted play of college football on the nearby mounted television — badly. Keeps looking over to where a father distracts his son from the noise and bustle around them with one of those outdated planks with colorful metal wires criss-crossing each other for simple beads to travel on.

Makes sense, though. The kid’s mop of messy dark hair could place him for a younger version of Cal’s brother, Donny.

“Hey, Kujo!” Ryder snaps to get the wolf’s attention — gets more than that when Cal’s upper lip curls like he’s baring fangs.

“You call me that _one more time,_ Ryder, and I swear to god I’ll —”

_“Enough, guys.”_ Taylor forces his way between them. 

Ryder, however, is either entirely too used to threats by now or doesn’t find the werewolf to be much of a threat. Both aren’t very healthy reasons. 

“Where’s Katherine?”

And yeah, where _is _Katherine? She’d been so insistent at the _Shift _to see Tonya’s condition for herself yet had been more than willing to hang back and make a call while Vera reunited with her mother.

Cal jerks his head towards the automated doors. “She dipped out.”

“Really, I _hadn’t noticed,”_ luckily all it takes is a glare from Taylor to tone down his dangerous levels of sass, “you find out where she was goin’?”

“Naw, she —”

“She’s making arrangements for us to meet with the Garden Coven — ideally as soon as possible.”

Cadence arrives bearing the holy grail of all holy grails; hospital coffee. Makes balancing the three cups sans lids while swerving his way through a minefield of professionals, patients, and problematic persons downright easy. He hands each of them their caffeinated prizes while continuing; “Time is of the essence after all.”

A grim silence settles over the group. Just another time when, once again, there’s more going on than what’s being said and Taylor is left out of the loop. But he won’t fall into the trap this time — he simply won’t ask. 

No matter how _burning _the compulsion is, how _desperately _he wants to know? Nope. Not asking. 

Ryder practically gags on his first sip of coffee — _funny,_ thinks Taylor, _since he chugs down alcohol strong enough to burn off his tastebuds any other time_ — before he speaks.

“And there’s no one else suspect?”

Cadence shrugs. “The Mayor wasn’t at the garden, but even if it _is _him by some miracle or another he’d need a witch to summon that level of power.”

“All roads lead to the Garden.”

“Worst case scenario they agree.”

“You should’ve gone with her,” hard to tell which one is sharper; the look Nik throws at the vampire or the edge of his words, “no one has it in good with those crones. She could use the protection.”

“On the contrary I might be second to, well, _you _in how I stand with them.”

Context — context is good. And judging by said context this _Garden Coven _is rather the opposite. He pipes up; “They don’t know me yet, that’s a positive, right?”

Three pairs of eyes in a deadpan stare that tells him no, no that isn’t a positive at all.

“Well,” Cal smacks his open palms on his jeans and resumes his seat — the kid and his dad are gone now, the toy left abandoned and on its side, “nothin’ to do but wait. Least here I don’t gotta move Garrus’ inventory.”

So that’s it, they’re just going to sit on their thumbs and wait?

Well — _Cal’s _going to sit. The vampire shrugs and hands his number off to Ryder with a mention to call him if there’s news; takes off back the way he had come towards the hospital cafeteria. 

Then Nik’s leaning in close, voice low and breath a tickle in his ear that Taylor wasn’t prepared for and can’t exactly contain his reaction to. But luckily the front doors slide open at the same time and his shudder could easily be taken as a shiver against the chillier evening air. 

“Listen, Rook, about —”

It makes him step back and gape. “You really think _now _is the time to talk about that?” Because, uh, _no._

Then Nik’s rolling his eyes with an arm thrown over his shoulder. “No, I’m not — shut up.” And he may very well be trying to get Taylor alone to talk about… _about what happened in the apartment,_ but his dumb legs follow anyway. Like they’re conditioned by now to know safety lies at the hells of that dumb leather duster.

He stops them just shy of an unmanned desk. Keeps his voice low; “There’s a lot goin’ on right now.”

“Gee, _really?”_

“I mean —” Taylor takes a little pride in forcing Nik to pinch the bridge of his nose, just a little, “— between Tonya in there, and I don’t even know how to begin tellin’ you all the things not to do in front’a the Garden Coven, and yeah sure at some point maybe… talkin’ about earlier would be good —”

“Not. right. now.”

“I ain’t sayin’ right now!” A rare grunt of genuine frustration. Maybe Taylor’s toed the line a little too far… makes him back off at the very least. He can let the man get his words out, sure.

An opportunity Nik’s grateful for. “I figure you wouldn’t wanna do this without Vera but you weren’t wrong when you said she oughta stay with Tonya. But I dunno the next time we’ll be in this part of town. And I never intended not to keep this promise.”

_Oh. _

Nik notices the epiphany in his eyes and gives a curt nod. Stands with his hands shoved in his jeans pockets, which hunches his shoulders, which makes him seem more sincere than the hunter’s normal bravado allows for.

“She’s two floors up. You… you up for this?”

No — he isn’t. But as ever Nik is (begrudgingly) right. Who knows the next time they’re not going to be kidnapped, or attacked, or potentially fatally worse?

So he just nods and follows the safety of Nik’s heels towards the elevator.

* * *

It should be a good thing that the Intensive Care Unit doesn’t have many long-term patients. But Taylor already has a _thing _with hospitals. A nearly empty floor with all the blinds drawn and only one cantankerous-looking old guy manning the nurse’s station? 

_Welcome back to your own personal horror movie, Taylor._

The floor’s only occupants are side-by-side. So focused on getting to her after all this time, Taylor barely gives the man a passing glance. Catches sight of a smaller, frail-looking body in the bed over where his back is hunched and shaking with silent sobs.

The air is stale with the salty taste of grief.

The first thing he notices is how _dull _her room looks. Makes sense; she’s in a different city in a different state than where she grew up and even if there were volunteers about they’re probably all assigned to the patients who will appreciate and take advantage of a stranger’s generosity.

“I should’ve brought flowers,” mutters Taylor absently. 

She would have brought _him _flowers. That’s just the kind of friend Kristin is.

Only the chart at the foot of her bed says ‘Jane Doe.’ Lists extensive injuries Taylor catches only a glimpse of before he forces his gaze elsewhere. But because he’s back in the Hunter Horror Flick each new thing he sees is _leagues _worse than the last.

Tonya had magic on her side. Even if it was gone now, even if it hadn’t worked — it was more than the negative defenses Kristin had had against their attacker. 

She looks like someone poured a gallon of ink over a kiddie pool of milk. Weird analogy but not a wrong one. The machine keeping track of her vitals beeps slow and rhythmic. Says good things about the state of her pulse and her heart… only that he’s pretty sure it should be a little more upbeat.

He would have thought the tube down her throat would make him gag but somehow knowing it’s helping keep her alive is enough to stay his weak stomach. The in-process transfusion between a healthy, red bag on her right and the barbecue sauce-looking contents of the left bag, though… well he has to look away some time.

He’d hoped—no, thought—Nik was still in the doorway; a reassuring presence giving him an inch of space. Instead the Nighthunter is given a mile and is nowhere to be found.

He shoves the ‘Why I’m Uncomfortable With That’ essay back inside — there’s room to spare in the little mental box he’s assigned to process pretty much _everything _regarding Nik Ryder at a later and less perilous date.

Only when he’s taken in every part of her — no matter how frail or beaten — does Taylor pull up a chair from near the open doorway. Reaches out and covers Kristin’s hand with both of his own.

Because its easier than accepting the truth Taylor just tells himself he’s getting a fever, and _that alone_ is the reason why she’s as cold as ice.

The alternative is there, screaming in his face, but he’s willfully denied the existence of something before, right? He’s pretty much a pro at this point.

“Christ, Krissy… I’m — I’m _so sorry.” _

Sorry he’s only just coming to see her now. Sorry he let this happen to her in the first place. Sorry he had such a _stupid _idea as he had.

Only barely registers the trembling in his hand when he reaches out and pushes a strand of her hair aside. He wants to rip the tube out of her mouth — it looks alien; wrong. 

Can she hear him? He’s heard different stories of coma patients being aware of what’s around them but — but this isn’t an ordinary coma. This is supernatural, this is painful. 

_This is all his fault._

_“‘Bout time Miss Jane got herself a visitor. I told — oh, hey, don’t I know you?”_

He doesn’t place the voice nor the face it belongs to at first. How could he — in such a short amount of time Taylor’s met so many different people, different _creatures. _To see someone from before all this began is jarring in a way he didn’t expect.

That the badge tacked onto her olive green blazer says VOLUNTEER rather than a name doesn’t help either. Not until her features waver in front of his face — a heat mirage on a distant desert road. 

The cemetery tour guide is the literal _last _person he expected to see now. He tries to be discreet wracking his mind for her name but must not do a very good job; “Tilly, not that I’d expect ya to remember.”

“No no, I — I do. I just… it’s been a weird couple of days.”

Her gaze, bright and with that cat-like intensity Garrus has helped him get accustomed to, look through him to Kristin’s bed. “I bet.”

_Right _— she had invited him back to the city with a free ride; traded stories about their plans for _Mardi Gras_ and Taylor had gushed about seeing Kristin for the first time in ages.

And something tells him Tilly lives up to that look in her eyes. 

“Might I be right in guessin’ this unlucky lady is that friend’a yours?”

Hesitantly he nods — checks behind her to make sure that grumpy nurse isn’t listening in on them. “But don’t — don’t say anything, okay? I —” _Nik would _kill him_ if he was suddenly pulled in for questioning._

She taps her plush lips — how is everything about her just shy of perfect? — with a single finger. 

“Secret’s safe with me. I’m just glad she’s finally got some company. I make my rounds when I can, but this ain’t my day job.”

Though that begs the question doesn’t it? “Why do I have a feeling this meeting isn’t coincidence?”

“‘Cause ya’ve got a keen sense about you. I can’t quite see what it is, lit’le human, but it’s awful strong.”

_Human,_ she says. “So you know.”

“Know what, _cher?”_

“I can see through your glamour.”

“Had a hunch —” she takes the opportunity to step into the room properly, closes the curtain behind her for a barrier however thin, “— ‘specially when you kept starin’ at my ears when first we met. Talk about makin’ a girl self-conscious.”

“Oh—I’m sorry.” At least he’s sheepish about it. But the fae woman waves it off with ease. 

“You didn’t go tryin’ ta out me to all the humans in my guide group, so there’s no reason for ‘sorries.’ Most mortals don’t got that kind’a sense about them.”

“You run into this kind of thing often?”

“Oh—well no,” and Tilly goes a little red at the tips of her elven ears, “but I’ve been ‘round for quite some time. In a town like Nawlins you can’t even imagine what can be seen in one immortal lifetime.”

Actually, he can? Seeing Kristin _and _Tilly again reminds him just how little time has actually passed since his biggest concern was making sure he had all of the ingredients for his former roommate’s ‘tried and true’ hangover cure. 

It feels like he’s been through the ordeal of several lifetimes in a matter of days.

His silence speaks volumes, has Tilly pulling up a rolling computer chair from outside the curtain to join him in his solitude. She surprises Taylor by reaching out and tilting his head up with a finger crooked under his chin.

He’s quick to notice that unlike Cadence, whose years echo deep in the weaving colors of his irises, there isn’t a hint of her age to be found. 

“Though maybe you _can _imagine…” Its a prompt — an opening. 

And maybe its because she’s caught him still raw from taking in Kristin’s current state or just because he needs to get it all out to _someone _before he literally explodes — but its an opening that Taylor takes. A little _too _gladly, maybe.

The levee holding in thoughts and words breaks somewhere on his tongue and just pours out. Keeps going and going and _going _until she feels compelled to stop him with a gesture, grabs an untouched cup of water from Kristin’s bedside, and practically forces him to drink before he’s allowed to, well, keep going.

Lucky for him though she doesn’t seem _bothered _by it. In fact she’s best described as enraptured in his tale. Gives nods of understanding; gasps of surprise. 

Only when he’s exhausted himself of story to tell, catching up at the literal present with— “and now we’re just waiting, but shit I don’t know where he went, actually, I should go look for him…” —does he stop and _breathe._

When Tilly finally decides what to say he just knows, somehow, that she’s chosen every word with care. “That’s certainly a story for the ages, Taylor.”

“Not one I would’ve picked for myself if I had the choice.”

“We don’t always get to choose our path in this life, or the next for that matter. You should count ya’self among the lucky to be a part of the makin’ of the world; of the future.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “I don’t get it.”

“No,” the smile she gives him is coy and full of secrets, “I don’t suspect you would.”

He expects her to continue — she doesn’t. And now being left hanging is just shy of uncomfortable. Again, _where the hell is Nik…?_

“It strikes me, Taylor, that you might not know jus’ _what _you are. Ain’t you ever wondered?”

Tilly stands and kicks her chair back, makes a point of looking at the closed curtain when the chair collides with the wall loudly but when nothing happens it only encourages her further. 

Gets her to grab either side of Taylor’s chair and start pulling him closer to Kristin’s bedside. 

“Oi—hey, what’re you doing?” _What is she talking about, _what _he is?_

Tilly’s words _drip _with mischief, “Maybe that bodyguard a’yours is to blame. All this happenin’ at once but no one’s stopped to look at the big picture.”

Taylor recoils just on instinct when she goes to grab his hand but the fae isn’t having it. She wraps her spidery fingers around his wrist and the contact isn’t just _warm _its like a volcano — scorching hot, bubbling lava, something rising inside of him and swelling to a previously unheard sound.

But he can hear it now. Like its a part of her. Some distant lilting tune that brings to his mind’s eye towering bonfires of majestic purple flames, of waters thousands of miles deep but so clear you can see right to the bottom, of wings the size of an airplane beating heavy and true against a sky riddled with a dozen moons and infinite stars.

He jerks them apart with wide eyes. Finds the smile she’s shining down upon him unnerving in that he can see all of her teeth at once. People who smile like _that _are always undoubtedly up to something.

The hospital lights flicker, then return to their usual brightness. 

He hadn’t even noticed them go dim. 

It makes him look around wildly. “Wh—What happened? What did you do to me?” And its only occurred to him what might be considered _too late_ that this Tilly woman might be less a friend than a foe.

“I didn’t do nothin’, _cher._ Just showed you a teensy bit’a what you’re capable of. Since I bet no one else has bothered to try.”

Before he can protest or even question her there’s a finger to his lips. That same spark only hinted at — the melody stuck on the tip of his tongue. “All these miracles — the good and the bad — and n’one ever stopped to wonder why they keep happenin’ to _you? _

“Why you can see through the fog, or why ya’ve got literal hell on ya heels?”

“Very bad luck?” He tries through a smushed mouth. Tilly’s laugh is like wind-chimes of ethereal glass.

_“Luck_ ain’t got a side to choose. But luck — luck is a streak of random chance. This is more. After all… what’s our reunitin’ but somethin’ that ought to’ve happened to bring us in the here and now?”

Fabric rustles behind him, enough to distract the fae woman and give him the chance to get her out of his personal bubble.

He’s never been so goddamn happy to see Nik in his life. Even if he plans on hitting the man for abandoning him when this is over with.

There’s a small bouquet of tulips hanging at his side; still with the tag from the hospital gift shop downstairs. 

_Okay, maybe he’ll save that for another well-deserving time. Because that’s just sweet._

Only there’s nothing sweet about the glower on his face. The way it makes the dark circles under his eyes look harder, the set in his jaw more prominent. He bypasses Taylor to glare right at Tilly. An unreadable expression hidden beneath his well-placed mask.

“What exactly are you implying?” He asks; joins in on the conversation like he’s always been there. Maybe he was — lurking just out of sight.

She cocks her head playfully. “Oh, you know.”

“Pretend I don’t.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

He knows Nik well enough by now — when he doesn’t answer its because he’s still waiting for an answer to his first question.

Then they both look to Taylor — like they’re in each other’s heads. Its unnerving enough already and that just sends goosebumps down his spine.

Tilly with that same hidden _knowing._ And Nik…

Nik’s scaring him, to be honest, with the unfamiliar expression. An actual expression is rare enough but this… like he’s seeing Taylor for the first time. When he couldn’t have even managed it after being on top of him, being in his most intimate space?

The hunter rubs a hand over his mouth. “I had a hunch, just didn’t have the chance to figure out if it was even possible.”

“How much’a this world is born on _impossible,_ Nik Ryder?” she asks. Earns her a sharp look.

“How can you prove it?”

She wiggles her fingers. “I jus’ did.” 

“That ain’t enough to go on.”

“Not for certain — but it’s enough to get y’all in the door.”

“How quickly —”

“Say the word.”

“If he won’t listen —”

“He will.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Easy-peasy,” she presses the tips of her fingers together and Taylor _swears _he catches sight of sparks where they meet, “it all makes too much sense t’a be just circumstance.”

When Tilly pries her fingertips apart an unnatural breeze, warm and somehow ringed with sunlight, wafts over the room. Rustles the tips of Kristin’s hair and the thin hospital blanket resting atop her. Flutters the drawn curtain and the hem of Nik’s coat. 

A single pink petal falls from one of the tulips in his hand — dances practically alive along the tile floor only to be swept out of the room.

Somehow, though, deep in his chest Taylor knows it isn’t the lobby they’ll find on the other side.

In the same way he knows that’s where they need to go next.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to stay. Not with everything going on; the danger he’d be putting her back in. They were still waiting for word on when to join the others for their confrontation with the Garden Coven.

But looking down at Kristin — frail and so _so _cold… can Nik blame him for finding it hard to leave her side?

“Don’t worry — she’s safe here.”

He doesn’t take the hand the fae offers and thankfully she seems to understand. “And you won’t tell the hospital who she is?” 

“A fae’s word is bond.”

“Thank you.” _For watching over her, for letting him vent, for whatever she seems to know that Nik hasn’t yet brought to light._

When Taylor turns its to Nik’s bouquet held out in offering. He’s seen those hands; what they’re capable of. Strangling goblins and firing crossbows and the way they cradled his jaw with yearning. Yet now they’re trembling — the fear of rejection silent but _there._

“You said you should’a gotten her flowers.” Explains the Nighthunter absently. 

Taylor takes them for the gift — and wayward apology — that they are. Lays them across Kristin’s lap and presses a chaste kiss to her clammy forehead.

_“I’ll be back, Krissy. Get well soon.”_

Nik waits until they can cross the curtain’s threshold together. Must be feeling some kind of sappy because he doesn’t even try to move away when Taylor finds reassurance in his hand.

There’s a light that shouldn’t be there glowing through the gap where it brushes the floor. 

“Are you gonna explain what’s happening _before _we go, or —”

“I don’t wanna be wrong — you deserve better than that,” small blessings in the fact that Nik seems just as apprehensive about the first foot forward, “but if I’m not… you need to be ready for everything to change from here on out.”

He probably doesn’t mean to be funny. Taylor laughs anyway. “Like it hasn’t already?” — then, because the humor is fleeting — “You’ll stay with me, right?”

“The whole way.”

Those three words — and not even the three most important words in someone’s life — are enough to give him the courage to do what Nik won’t. 

He puts his first foot forward and pulls back the curtain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the posting delay! I completely forgot the holiday fell on a Wednesday this year and work had me swamped. But luckily the chapter was done, prepped, and ready to post today.
> 
> Did you catch both of those cameos? Because there were two, one a little more obvious than the other. Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	14. Things Better Left Unsaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taylor gets answers to questions he didn't know he had to ask. It seems to be an entirely unnecessary divergence from the main quest line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** mild dissociation, mild dysphoria, brief mention of therapy

Not gonna lie — it’s pretty damn validating when Elric, too, gives Nik a look of utter incredulity at his claim.  


Only that’s a _scarily similar_ look. One he could only recognize in the mirror. The same high arch of the right eyebrow; the way he blinks rapidly in sets of three. 

Its the least dignified look he’s ever seen on the Fae Lord’s expression — _honestly the least dignified he’s seen any fae look, which humanizes them in a way Taylor didn’t know he needed in order to make everything around him less mind-blowing_ — and its so very fucking _Taylor-esque._ Does the exact opposite of what its intended to do and actually makes him start to consider the _‘What If?’_ of the matter.

Lady Thalissa finally takes in a deep breath and turns away from the balcony railing; joins in on the discussion with otherworldly intensity. This close to the roaring waterfall below her hair billows in the freeze like living flame.

“Elric has shared with me in Living Memory the events of the attack. And while I too find this… _being _—” the word comes out with a different intention than how it sounds and the Lady of Lamrian offers him a nod of her head in pardon, “— to be of strange innate power, I must agree that you have come to the wrong conclusion, Nighthunter.”

But, like with all things, once Nik has made up his mind he refuses to back down.

Taylor wishes that he would _just this once._ Especially since both of their lives grow increasingly at risk.

“Why else would the bloodwraith go after Taylor in the first place, if not for his connection to a stronger power?”

“Why should it concern us?” She counters with, what Taylor believes, is a _very good fucking point._

He can _feel _Elric taking him in on a level deeper than physical out of the corner of his eye. He’s seen the power this guy is capable of — doesn’t want to ask him to find something else to stare at for risk of earning that ire.

You know what _he _wants to know? 

He wants to know why himself and Elric both are letting someone else do the arguing _for _them. Why they can’t just say “nope that’s bullshit, no way I’m your long-lost kid, especially since you’re an immortal being and I’m a moderately decent stage actor from Middle-of-Nowhere Midwestern America” and be done with it.

But he knows the answer. Knows it the same way Elric knows it — in the fashion that unravels their quickly-constructed barrier of impossibilities without even trying. 

“I’m not even gonna _try _to give you an answer on that one, lady. Er — My Lady.” Nik hastily corrects, but the noblewoman doesn’t seem too bothered by it. “But just like you can’t deny that thing is coming for the big faces in supernatural city politics, you can’t deny that this — _them _— might just be the missing page we’ve been looking for.”

The look she gives him says _I very much can deny it you insolent human,_ so much so that she doesn’t even need to speak it.

Instead; “Perhaps you are not on the wrong path. Perhaps, in an occurrence more rare than the birth of a phoenix or the perfect alignment of all the stars of Obidyanix, a halfling was born to a mortal mother.

“But to imply that sheer happenstance would dictate that child be of my husband’s blood —”

“Your hands are unburnt.” 

Thalissa falls silent at Elric’s first words since his surprise at the arrival of two outsiders into his Hall without his knowledge. 

On sheepish instinct Taylor goes to shove his hands into his jeans — instead finds them tugged forward by an invisible force, some kind of magic, and hovered over with the pale fae’s own. Like a sphere of glass keeps them from touching. He marvels at them the way anyone might marvel at seeing hands for the first time.

The pad of Elric’s thumb strokes over the lines of his palm and though they aren’t touching it sends a shiver down Taylor’s spine. Feels a little bit like satin. “In such shock as I was upon seeing your impossible act at the Council Garden, I did not take into account your preserved hands.”

It’s _just creepy enough_ that Taylor is frozen; caught between wanting to pull away and fearing the repercussions of actually doing it.

Thalissa rests an olive hand upon his shoulder, a ballad of confusion written in the emeralds of her eyes. “My Northern Moon…?”

“Did he tell you Taylor threw fae grimfire?”

Nik startles her attention back to him. There’s nothing haughty in the way he says it. No victory to be found. Just — what he believes to be — truth and certainty.

“You speak of a sorcerer’s imitation.”

But Elric is the one to dispute her this time around. “No, my Western Sunrise, he does not.” 

“But —”

“I saw it with my own eyes. A Living Memory to give to you when this is through. This one,” he covers both of Taylor’s hands with his — that same force he now recognizes as magic making them fold together, “carries the touch of the Fae. And that is only what we know.”

Nik answers his unspoken question; “The only thing that can’t be burned by fae grimfire is a fae. No protection spell in Ivy’s arsenal would keep you from that kind of power. 

“That’s when I knew, you know.” Head cast down, Nik suddenly can’t look him in the eye. “I played it off because… because I didn’t have any proof. But that wasn’t fair to you, Rook.”

So much was going on after he came back to consciousness at the _Shift._ Between feeling as nauseous as he did and then the whole _‘my mouth and your mouth doing the tongue tango’_ fallout; topped like a bad dessert with Vera’s panic and what happened to Tonya? The fact that he could remember everything that had happened today _in order_ was kind of a miracle.

Who had the _time _to think about _why his fingers weren’t crispy chicken tenders?_

“But —” — _because if no one else was going to try and argue this then he’d just have to do it himself_ — “— I mean… this is nuts! I think I’d know if I were — and anyway my dad was an accountant from Kenosha!”

_Smooth defense there, buddy._ Because so far Thalissa is the only vocal opposition and even she gives him a look of _is that all you could come up with?_

With a reluctance Taylor can _feel _in the places where skin ought to meet skin Elric pulls away. Folds his hands together where they are swallowed up by large and delicately embroidered sleeves. The Lady leans against him and he brushes a ghosted kiss to her temple. 

“Bitter moments and hours have been lost on the debates of halflings and their parentage before. But Nighthunter, it is the vehemence of your conviction which draws inquiry. Explain how this pertains to the blighted creature haunting our lands.”

Nik’s teeth grind together. “From the day I was hired I’ve been tryin’ to figure out just what he’s got that that _thing _wants. What a kingpin like Carlo and someone as powerful as Denna had in common with a human who didn’t know lick, or ain’t so much as been within three degrees of our world.

“Then it attacked the Beau-Keyes. Picked everyone off one by one. I punched a few good holes into it just the other night but it couldn’t have cared less about me, about Kathy — it went after power.”

Elric nods slowly; takes it all in. “First the Wolf… then Tonya.”

“The Rookie was _right there_ but it wanted something else. I ain’t fully convinced it went after him at the end… it seemed a lot more focused on you; the oldest thing in the city, and the vampire.”

“You evade the point.” Even frustrated, Thalissa’s words come out like a melody.

“My point is why go for _half _when you can have the whole thing? You said so yourself, Lord Elric; once a bloodwraith’s been sicked on something nothing short of its goal is gonna stop it. So what if it doesn’t have a person as a goal — what if it has a type?

“You asked what the odds were of Taylor sharing blood with not just _any _fae in town but the Founder and Protector of the Lamrian Colony. I’m gonna say they’re pretty damn high — right up there with whatever forces at play put me in his way in the first place.”

There’s always been a certain aura of ‘the Chaotic Dumbass’ to Nik, though maybe he’s just projecting to keep himself from being put to blame. But this — this is a whole other side of the man he’s never really seen—or noticed—until now.

How long had he been thinking about this? Was it all a ruse and he was actually pulling it out of his ass? No… its probably pretty hard to successfully bullshit a fae as old as he is important.

There’s very little doubt in his mind that Nik actually believes everything he’s selling. And its convincing enough to have them all listening; all… considering. 

“But that’s not why we’re here.”

_Uhm… isn’t it?_ But Nik doesn’t give him the chance to speak. “This — all this family stuff — this is a courtesy. Because you’re a powerful figure in the community and I respect that. But we ain’t here for just that. We’re here as a warning. Because its still out there. How many people does it have to go through before it ends up lurking at the edges of Lamrian’s wards?”

Elric actually seems haughty. “Our wards are impenetrable.”

“And a guy like you seems likely to get tired of being confined awful fast. You’re really just gonna wait the thing out?”

“If we must.”

Thalissa nods in agreement. “Lamrian has always endured.”

“Can you say the same for its people?” Nik nods down below the balcony as he speaks. 

Towards the hundreds of glowing lights in the darkness; lamps glowing pale pinks and yellows and blues bobbing in the air as the fae who carry them migrate away from the Lord’s domain and out towards the funeral procession they had interrupted in the first place.

The guards who had been killed by the bloodwraith at the Beau-Keyes. They were being mourned by not only their rulers but by their entire community. It was a sadness in the air that permeated through the beauty of Lamrian — spires of impossible age and design unlike anything Taylor had ever seen on the back of the brightest and clearest night sky. 

He couldn’t have imagined something like this in his wildest dreams. And yet it was so hard to truly appreciate because of the loss that was felt in every cobblestone, every winding string of ivy crawling up, up into the clouds and their oblivion.

The Lord and Lady, too, watch their people sing the songs of the fallen. A glittering tear falls down Elric’s cheek.

When Nik continues his voice is rougher; thicker. He isn’t spared from the emotions demanding to be felt in their full power. 

“You’re a good man, Elric — and a better regent. You really _care _about your people, but how long can you keep them safe here when they’re already such a big part of the mortal world?”

“Tilly doesn’t seem like the type to run and hide,” Taylor finds himself saying, “and Garrus…”

“Garrus is no longer welcome among us.” Thalissa practically snaps. Looks ready to give another piece of her mind when Elric’s hand falls over hers. 

“What is the pettiness of an old grudge compared to the lives of our people, my Western Sunrise?”

Old as they may be, having lived lifetimes Taylor’s not sure he could comprehend right at that moment; they’re still affected by loss. Not just in ceremony but in a heavy way. 

_And yet they still won’t do anything to help?_ It’s a bitter irony.

“If you’re just gonna hole up here and not even consider helping, then no amount of pleading on our part is gonna actually make a difference.” Taylor grabs Nik’s arm, catches Elric’s eyes with one last look of disappointment. “Let’s just go. Maybe the Garden Coven is the answer after all.”

“That’s all well and good, Rook, but we kinda need them to get outta here.” _Right, that makes sense._

They’ve wasted enough time here.

Its the dramatic act of turning and leaving that’s supposed to prove the point, that the ones who are staying are the ones _really _turning their backs on everyone. 

Thalissa makes a gesture with her hand and an armored guard rounds the corner of the balcony; ready and waiting to be summoned. “Prepare a portal for our guests,” she addresses him somber and solemn, “and when they have departed we would ask you to go over every fiber of the wards to ensure Lamrian’s safety.”

The guard bows and departs. A jerk of Nik’s head means they ought to follow, but something heavy keeps him from doing so. Not just in his feet which feel like two anchors are fastened to his ankles, but something that makes the air that once was crisp and a refreshing change now feel thick in his chest.

It makes sense for Nik to have hoped an appeal like ‘long lost child’ would spur Elric into action. Whether he’s just pulling legs or actually means what he says. He’s seen it done in plays and epic dramas and normally it works because… well because normally even if its a lie at first it ends up being the truth.

_There’s no fucking way this is the truth._

“While I would not risk the lives of my people again, I would wish you luck.” 

When he looks back at Elric the man’s hand is offered to shake. It’s funny, almost. Humorous at least. So uncomfortably _human _in gesture that the longer Taylor hesitates to take it the more he seems unsure of whether or not he’s performed the right action. 

And he doesn’t _want _to take it. Wants to make some kind of point by refusing. But if, by some actual impossibility, he _had _seen something familiar in the Lord moments ago…

He breaks the invisible glass sphere — the barrier between them — and shakes Elric’s hand firmly.

* * *

_He hasn’t crossed the barriers between his realm and the realm of mortals in nearly half a century. _

_Would not even have noticed the passage of time if not for wistful sighs that turned into the insistence of his beloved soul-kind, his Western Sunrise, that he walk among them and remember what it once felt like to gaze upon mortality with wonderment and delight._

_In the strands that weave together the universe he knows they were once part of the same creation. Even among the fae that is a rarity to encounter. Even more so to stay at each others’ sides as they have._

_That she chose to abandon their world and walk with him among the places where only the lost dare to be found… it would be impossible to ask for such love and devotion — only for the trouble he would have bringing a request like that to his lips._

_Each night he walks through throngs of fumbling children — even the oldest of mortals are still so very young in his eyes. And when they see him they know it, too. Despite the dull flush this glamour gives him, they know he is different than they are._

_That the look in his eyes comes from the pain of loss and the pleasures of discovery. _

_In most of them it incites a feeling — an instinct. One to let them revel in his beauty but keep their distance. _

_In_ her… 

_It was as though on the day she came into the world that instinct was taken and turned on its head. Where others retreated she sought to dive in deeper, further. The act of pursuit so foreign to him that he wondered if she somehow had a touch of the fae inside of her and did not know it._

_She was greedy in the way immortal creatures were greedy; demanding of the world to let her feel and accepting nothing less than every emotion there could possibly be in the universe. So unlike the rest of her kind. A single rain drop able to flood the desert._

_There was little doubt in his mind that if she had the power to shape the stars to her whim she would carve out entire stretches of sky with the stories she had lived, wished to live, and would live before her time was done._

_She prostrated to him with an open breast and he _took. Shamelessly. _Even now he remembers her soul brighter than the suns of the homeland he now walks only in Living Memory. _

_In memories like these._

_But to see a soul is to eclipse simple, tangible things. The indent of her cheek when she smiled. The strands of gold she wove together and called hair. A silvery streak over her knuckle called a_ scar. _The curl of peach-painted toes in ecstasy._

_He sees it now, too. As if the very veils of reality have been drawn back with a startled flourish. _

_Not in the mouth, hair, or toes. But in the part he had forgotten; had_ wanted _to forget — has no qualms being honest with himself. Because compared to those of_ his kind _they are far more dull, far more revealing of their frail limitations than they would like to think._

Her soul rests in his eyes.

* * *

When this is all over, if he’s still alive to see _The End,_ he’d like a few answers.

_A perfectly reasonable request._

And yeah, its a bit of a shock to them both… but it doesn’t change anything if Elric isn’t going to help.

_Maybe one day he will be more than forgiven. Maybe one day he will _understand.

“Yeah, doubt it.” Taylor answers aloud — pulls his hand away from the fae’s touch and the world of Lamrian, still with a beauty beyond compare, goes dull around him. If that’s what life is going to be like now knowing what he knows…

“The gateway is ready, My Lady,” calls the guard behind them. 

With a finality Taylor glances between the Lord and Lady; she who now looks between the other half of her soul and deeper than just his human body with a new revelation. There’s almost an apology in the crease of her ginger brow. 

She opens her mouth to speak — but either can’t find the right words or simply doesn’t want to bring them to light.

“Thank you for your time. — And we’re sorry for your loss.”

He’s tugging Nik along then. Doesn’t give him the chance to say much but from the looks of it there’s nothing more to be said. 

Nik was right.

But Elric, Thalissa — they still won’t help. 

_So it doesn’t matter, does it?_

The guard leads them back to the main hall where they entered. Now empty of the mourning congregation from before. The portal is like Tilly’s; created by the hidden place between a curtain of rich velvet reaching all the way up to the top of an archway made of polished amethyst.

The noises from behind it should echo through the hall’s every hollow space but it doesn’t. It waits until they’re mere breaths from stepping through and Taylor only notices because of how jarring the sounds of a ringing landline and crackling of a PA speaker sound in comparison to the medieval space they occupy.

Just like last time he takes the first step. Worries deep deep down that if he doesn’t he might never — might try and stay and not just to convince them to help, either.

There’s no curtain on the other side this time around; no veil between worlds. Just a doorway already open and the hospital lobby in a lull beyond.

Before Taylor can beeline for the sight of Cal, Cadence, and Katherine having rejoined them, a familiar hand grabs his wrist, tugs him aside until the lobby fluorescents are a far-off dream. Replaced instead by the darkness of a cramped facilities closet.

His eyes adjust in no time at all. He watches as Nik blinks away the light. Wonders silently and to himself if that’s something he inherits from his… from Elric.

Wonders if its a _halfling _thing.

But he knows why Nik pulled him in there. “I know why you pulled me in here,” and he really doesn’t want to talk about it, “and I really don’t want to talk about it,” because there’s more at stake than the secrets Nik has been keeping from him, “because I’m sure I don’t need to tell _you _there’s more at stake than any other secrets you’re keeping from me.” And because seeing Kristin again has reminded him just how high the stakes really are.

He doesn’t say that last bit aloud. 

“Too bad,” like Nik’s just used to getting his way, “because —”

“Sorry—was I speaking English? I said _no.”_

Together they wait in breathless silence for someone to burst in and kick them out. He wasn’t exactly quiet. And the footfalls of rubber crocs and worn gym shoes are soft but not silent — they come and go and leave the pair alone.

He can’t help but bite out; “You know for the ‘brooding loner’ type you sure want to talk about your feelings a lot.”

“It ain’t for my sake, Rook.”

“Well if its for mine, you can cut it out. Because—because I can’t even begin to _introduce _how mad at you that I really am, okay? And for the record, _Ryder,_ I’m a guy with a _lotta _words to say. So when I don’t have any its generally seen as _not a good thing.”_

And his skull might not be as thick as he makes it out to be because Nik does, indeed, fall quiet. Stares at him with all of the shadows from the light underneath the door casting on the hard angles of his face and he’s _thinking, debating,_ trying to figure out the right thing to say but this might not be something that can be fixed by simple words. By an apology.

He might be finally starting to realize that.

“You…” he totally inherited the ‘wagging finger’ from his mother and not Elric, not Elric at all, “I mean, you get how I’m angry, right? Please tell me you get that because I don’t think I really know if I can find the words to _make _you get it.”

“I — I get it.”

“No you don’t!” He shoves the man back — or tries to, he’s solid muscle that Taylor remembers almost fondly and doesn’t move an inch — with gritted teeth and frustration. From a place of frustration he didn’t know he could reach. 

“Okay. I don’t.”

“You’re damn right you don’t! Who the hell do you think you are? Where do you get off thinking you can just—just keep upending my life like this?! No—No don’t answer that, don’t you fuckin’ dare.

“Because you… you think you can just come into my life and keep messing with it the way you have been well. Well no. No more—I’m just saying no more. No more being chased, no more underground fights, no more fearing for my life and _no more secrets!_

“Christ… do you think she knew? Do you think she knew and never told me?” — _where the hell did _this _come from?_ — “Do you think that—that every time I fucked myself up or every time I did something stupid she was just wondering how _human _I was? When I told her I was trans—did she think it was some dumb _fae thing? _

“You know _all _the answers, Nik, so just—just _tell me if she knew.”_

His hand flies over his mouth to contain his sudden choked sob like he _hasn’t _been practically shouting and if anyone was going to come in they definitely would have by now.

Everything goes a little blurry and tears sting in his eyes and then he’s wrapped in a person-sized vice and the smell of dust and dirt and _Ryder _fills his nose and he didn’t know how much of a comfort it would be until he has it. Doesn’t want to ever be let go.

“Did she… I mean —”

Its obviously not in the realm of questions Nik asks often. How he manages a couple of false starts before huffing heavy through his nostrils and decides to just stay quiet instead.

But he can guess where the man might have been going with it. _Did she accept you? Was she supportive? Do I need to have a _talk _with her? _

“It—_hic_—took her a bit. There were some therapists involved.”

Nik’s arms tighten around him. “She didn’t try to change you through that shit, did she?”

“No—no nothing like that. More… she and me — we had to find a way to talk about it that didn’t land me at a bar and her closing up.”

Taylor pulls back — tries to regain some semblance of the masculine facade — and there’s a sheet half-pulled off of the shelf nearest them in Nik’s offered hand. It’s a much-needed laugh before he takes it and wipes his eyes. “It wasn’t like it is in the movies, you know? I went in ready to tell her, ready for everything to be so black and white…”

But telling his mom hadn’t been the binary acceptance or rejection he thought it would be. It had taken time, and a lot of talking, and a lot of refusing to talk. Compromises that weren’t really compromises because there was always someone who got out of the deal a little more satisfied than the other.

Then something changed. He couldn’t tell you how or when _exactly _it happened but he was lucky enough to be able to look behind him in the small court room, to find her eyes in the small crowd, and in them find the courage to turn back to the judge and say proudly just why he wanted his name changed. 

They went out for dinner after. At the hostess’ booth his mom had given her his real—and newly legal—name. And he knew everything was going to work out.

And those memories were still good ones. They were still important, still defined his journey. But if she _knew…_

No. If she _didn’t _know. If she didn’t know then this was just another thing to tell her. Another part of himself to bring into the light. Another secret between them — and that just didn’t seem _fair._ Not to Taylor, not to his mom, not to anyone.

Nik fidgets relentlessly in front of him. Arms at his sides, then hands in his pockets, tucked under his armpits, one in the coat pocket and one in his jeans. Like he’s only just realized he has hands and has no idea what to do with them.

“You, uh, you… better?”

Taylor nods; gathers the sheet up into a ball and chucks it in a laundry cart at the back of the closet. “As much as I can be — I’m still pissed at you, though.”

“At this point I’d be worried if you weren’t.”

“It’s not a joke, Nik.”

“I know Rook — I know.”

“So now what?”

Its a useless question; they both know the answer. 

Nothing has changed. Elric won’t help. Kristof isn’t a likely ally, Isadora neither. Tonya is out of commission. And if the bloodwraith really _is _after creatures of power like Nik suspects then Taylor — and somehow Cadence — still have targets on their backs.

_Now what?_

Now… they just keep going down the list. There’s one last name to cross off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it seems like things have gone entirely off the rails here but bear with me! It'll be worth it I promise. Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	15. The House on Prytania Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang heads to Prytania Street to meet with the last power left untouched in New Orleans; the Garden District Coven. Taylor starts to experience the side effects of being a fae halfling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** language, hallucinations, mild dissociation, blood, threats of violence

The sun’s heat is blistering on the back of his neck. 

It feels unnatural in a way; conducting their business with the darker side of the world in the daylight. They’ve been running between the worlds that exist between sunset and sunrise for so long that he almost forgot what the sun even looks like.

He likes looking at the moon. But looking at the sun? Ouch.

Still it feels strange not to have Cadence’s towering presence hovering somewhere at his back. Looking over at Katherine — he can’t imagine what it must feel like to her.

“Hey — nope, eyes here.”

Taylor winces at the backhand to his arm but Ryder definitely isn’t in the mood. He’s been tense ever since they left the hospital with a time and place to address the Garden Coven. Like he didn’t know that was the plan, or something.

“I’m listening,” promises Taylor. But _listening_ for Nik at that very moment requires eyes as well as ears. 

“Really? Then what’d I just say?”

He blames his hesitation on the fact its taking _forever _for the coffee to hit his nervous system. Looks to Cal beside him for some kind of help but the werewolf gives him a look of _you’re on your own._

“Uh —” 

“Right, thought so.” 

“I get the gist, Nik. Don’t be rude, don’t make eye contact, probably best just not to open my mouth.”

Cal snorts. “Actually that’s scarily close to verbatim.”

“Did I ask you?” snarks Ryder, but the bait remains abandoned in the cracks on the sidewalk.

The Upper Garden District is like most wealthy neighborhoods; nice to look at for a time but not much for entertainment value without a place to actually _go._ And sure Taylor has entertained the thought of owning one of the many million-dollar mansions lined with black iron gates and enough bedrooms to sleep in a different one every night for a week or more. 

But its like the streets _know._ They _know _what Taylor and the rest have seen — what some of them have done. They know what creature hunts them and close their entrances off with hanging willow branches and high brick walls. 

Claiming innocence, refusing to be witnesses like covering their eyes in cupped palms absolves them of the duty placed upon survivors to recount tragedy when it is over.

Because they might be the only ones left to do so.

Taylor drags his fingertips along the winding bars of an iron gate. Wonders if the prickling he feels under his touch is static, his imagination, or _something more._

Nothing about 937 Prytania Street sets it apart from the houses on either side of it, or across the street for that matter. If Katherine hadn’t stopped in front of it he might not have even guessed it was their final destination.

Wasn’t a witches’ home supposed to be covered in sigils or guarded by spirits from another world? At least adhere to the aesthetic, people. 

Thank god, though, he’s not the only one underwhelmed by the obviously-new shiny coat of eggshell-white or the lack of shutters creaking in the mid- morning breeze.

“You sure this is the place, Kathy?” asks Cal with his head slightly raised, nostrils flared to try and pick up whatever scent witches carry. “It smells pretty ordinary.”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses the buzzer and waits patiently for the gate to open.

It does and without so much as an ominous creak. 

Maybe its his paranoia kicking in but with every step they take towards the house the feeling of unease in Taylor’s stomach grows, and grows, until it sloshes around — doesn’t sit well with his coffee. Everything his eyes take in seems _too _normal. A lawn _too _well-manicured, a set of metal golden numbers _too _polished. Makes him want to grab a fistful of soil from a _too _vibrant pot of Easter lilies and throw it somewhere, anywhere to make the place a little less picturesque. 

Lamrian was beautiful in its perfection. 

The House on Prytania Street is perfect the way a staged corpse is perfect.

A stiff gentleman in a three-piece suit opens the door before Katherine can use the knocker. Looks the four of them over with a condescending air about him and there’s a half-second where it looks like he’s ready to close the door in their faces on principle. 

He doesn’t, instead steps aside. 

The problem with most of the houses in the area is that, beauty aside, most of them stand empty. Not on the material front — they are always filled with collections of _things _and with more places to sit than is realistically necessary. But whether its the shitty housing market or the fact that they’re just owned like another piece of a collection, rarely are they lived-in.

The Garden Coven house is no different. 

While the Suit leads them to a parlor off the right of the house Taylor tries his best to try and find _some _evidence of life being lived; on the walls, the carpet, even in smudges in the dust that lines various and seemingly unrelated objects on display. 

There are none. Not one single fingerprint.

Though the Suit gestures to a matching array of chaise lounges and high-backed chairs for them to wait in, they stay standing because Katherine stays standing. 

“You will be collected shortly,” is all the Suit says before returning the way they had come; though this time he pulls the double doors closed behind him. Leaves them all feeling trapped despite the open windows and sunlight pouring through.

“Random question here,” Taylor breaks the silence because it might _actually _drive him up the wall, “but do we have a plan for if this goes badly?”

He looks to Ryder, who looks at Katherine, who has suddenly taken up an interest in the antique carpet underfoot.

_Of course they don’t have a plan. _Why would they have a plan for their last resort? The same wonder team that practically broke into Persephone without so much as an escape route on the brain.

Historically things have worked out in their favor, though. Is it wrong of him to hope this time, too, might not be so terrible?

The glowing yellow eyes that bore into his soul from across the room say yes, yes it _is _wrong of him. Say _how dare he imagine that things might not turn out so bad._ They blame him for bringing hellfire and brimstone down on this house, on this city. 

_“— ly shit, Taylor. You okay?”_

Its like an out-of-body experience in reverse. Feeling too deep and too trapped within himself to answer the concern on Ryder’s face. Like he’s drowning inside his own mind — or inside someone else’s.

Nothing about her is stable — pinpointing what she looks like beyond the startling gaze with which she holds him captive is about as easy as finding a single raindrop in a stormy sea. 

One moment there are wrinkles around her eyes. Lines at her mouth pursed with thin lips in a frown of disappointment. Then youthful candor in aching regret. Grey hair healthy and full then withered, curling like the rumors that hair and nails continue to grow long after you’re buried in the ground.

He doesn’t realize it until the tear burn at his eyes and make him choke, but he’s crying.

“Taylor — Taylor!”

It’s back-breaking to pull away from the vortex he’s been ensnared in. Both the sun and moon in each of her eyes. Glassy and knowing at the same time. 

But he blinks. Feels those same tears run down his cheeks and tickle his chin. Looks at the concerned faces of his friends with utter confusion because how in the world could they be staring at him when he’s facing judgment at the metaphorical pearly gates, here?

Even he’s aware of how foolish he sounds when all he can let out is a dumb “What?”

Nik takes him by the shoulders; looks him up and down for any signs of physical harm like it all isn’t in his head. Remains the most tried and true validation of his experiences to this day.

“You — what the hell happened to you?”

Taylor looks to Cal’s frown of concern, to Katherine’s violet curls like whips lashing around her face as she tries to pinpoint _what, where._

“You look like you jus’ saw a damn ghost,” Cal sees the confusion in his eyes and thinks he’s helping. He isn’t.

So he cranes his neck back, away from Nik, to the point where it feels like he might snap his own spine. 

She’s still there — in the doorway to a shadowy corridor. Both young and old and there and not. Then she isn’t _her _at all and the elderly man standing in her place reminds him of his grandfather a bit — which does nothing but unsettle him further.

“You… you don’t see her — hi— it?”

_No, of course they don’t._ Why would they? 

He’s used to this — defaults into the old habit of trying to pretend the thing he’s looking at doesn’t exist. Already with denial on the tip of his tongue burning like a sour candy left forgotten. 

But this was supposed to have stopped. No more headaches, no more hallucinations. The things he’s seen and accepted… so why is this different? Why _now _of all the rotten times is he seeing something no one else can?

Sure Nik tries; Cal too. They look in the doorway where the figure hovers like a bad trip on acid. They try, but they don’t see. 

“Rook,” — _is this where he pulls a Hermione, tells Taylor that seeing things no one else can see isn’t normal even in their freaky lives?_ — “there’s no one there.”

Only he doesn’t sound his usual level of confidence. Sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself right alongside.

Katherine scoffs under her breath; shakes her head and sits because there’s nothing else to do with her arms folded so tightly across her chest its undeniably a measure of self-comfort. Of keeping herself grounded.

When Cal tries to sniff the air his nose crinkles. “There’s too many different scents. Ritual burnings, smudges — I can’t get a read on shit.”

“I swear,” mutters Nik so low Taylor wouldn’t hear it if he weren’t as close as he is, “if these bastards are messin’ with you —”

For a guy who spent the entire journey warning against this exact type of frustration, anger, Taylor’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter if the Coven — wherever they may be — can’t hear him. 

“Stop, it’s fine.”

“It ain’t —”

“You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

“Like I give a damn?!”

“Lower your voice!”

“A-_hem.”_

At some point the Suit had returned without their notice. Taylor would like to hope it was after his little freak-out but, time to face facts; he’s just not that lucky. 

The way he looks them over — he might very well have some sort of magic-witchy x-ray vision. How the fuck someone can have a gaze that feels something like being scored at the top of his head and having his very being pulled back layer by layer is a mystery and, unlike the others, its one Taylor has no desire to solve.

“The Garden Elders will see you now.”

He wants to ask for a second to catch his breath; regain his composure. But why ask for it when he already knows the answer he’ll get?

Like before Suit doesn’t wait for them to speak an agreement. Just turns and begins walking deeper into the old house with purpose. Cal follows close behind — for all his bravado there’s unmistakable gooseflesh riddling his forearms.

Taylor reaches out to Katherine without a second thought; offering like he can help her up when they both know she could very well launch him over the chair and out the window like a rag doll. 

Just another thing to distract him from the unrelenting stare digging knives into his back, probably.

Only Katherine takes his hand; surprises them both by doing so. 

“You still see them, don’t you?”

The way Kathy’s eyes roam the space behind him, Taylor can tell she’s searching for the smallest speck of something to assuage his worries. But if you see something you don’t _look _for it.

So Taylor just nods. Follows with her at Nik’s back where he acts like a wall to keep their whispers private. 

“Its not the Coven.” She says it so matter-of-factly. 

The figure, now a young girl in the same pale grey shroud as the other faces had been, keeps staring even as they leave the parlor behind.

“Then what is it?” Nik throws back through gritted teeth. 

“Something much more powerful.”

Taylor squeaks. “Not helping.”

“I recognize that look — I’ve seen it in the mirror,” and when they approach another set of double doors, stalled behind the Suit and his glower, her breath is hot in his ear.

_“Keep an eye out. If The Fate is watching then there’s far more at stake than we assumed.”_

* * *

His first thought is _there have to be more witches in New Orleans than this,_ closely followed by _please stop inviting trouble into your life, Taylor._

But even Katherine looks confused at the emptiness of the solarium they’re led into. How unassuming the three occupants look taking their tea with a pristine porcelain pot at a table out of _Home and Garden_ magazine.

The same kinds of lilies, white petals large and curling under the sunlight, occupy every planter and pot in sight. Some of them are accompanied by flowers he’s only ever seen in books or movies — others look like they might be more at home in Lamrian taking root than here; to be appreciated but ultimately with a finite lifespan.

The solarium is a half-circle of heat and glass. Even the door leading out to a back garden path is see-through; the handle made of crystal. Everything catches on the sun and it makes Taylor quite literally hot under the collar. 

He wipes a bit of sweat away from his chin uncomfortably.

They aren’t greeted when they enter. There are no chairs for them to take up. The Suit departs with the same wordless condescension with which he arrived and they’re just left there, taking up space on pristine marble, watching the so-called Garden Elders take their tea.

Only one of them actually looks the title ‘elder.’ The cotton on his robes looks scratchy, makes Taylor want to itch along his arms even at a distance. The locs that obscure his withered face fall back when he lifts his head up to the sun — casting shadows in the lines and creases of age he wears not just well but with a sort of pride. 

With a delicate two-fingered touch he pushes his cup and saucer to the woman to his left. She refills his cup without looking away from the newspaper folded in front of her setting. The air around her seems to hold back as if afraid to touch — reverent of her existence but willing only to observe. The way the light illuminates her dark skin is practically golden. Makes her shine with some ethereal grace more at home with fae-kind than mortal witches, but the glow is undoubtedly hers.

The third Elder takes Taylor by surprise — he’s seen her before. Can still smell the sour cling of sweat to copper talismans and commercial incense on the ever-crowded floor of the House of Voodoo shop on Bourbon Street. Takes _hiding in plain sight_ to a whole new level.

Would the Taylor from before all of this have felt the power that radiates around them? Would he have understood there was something to be feared about this particular trio; something he couldn’t possibly understand yet could feel in a place deeper than in the marrow of his bones? 

_I guess we’ll never know._

The polite thing to do would be to wait for them to finish their morning repast. 

They don’t have time for politeness.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice, Elders.” Katherine gives a respectful nod of her head when she steps forward. Based on the _look _she throws at Ryder that’s what they should all be doing — but he doesn’t. And Taylor just doesn’t want to look like an idiot.

Something rattles hollow around the old man’s neck and when he turns Taylor _really _hopes those aren’t real bones strung together with twine. His eyes are a milky, clouded white but he looks at Katherine with no trouble.

“Despite what rumor may have you believe we care a great deal of our ties to the community.”

Kathy opens her mouth to speak but because Nik is _Nik _he scoffs _“yeah, sure,”_ loud enough to drag the focus of all three Elders onto him.

“If you’ve something to say, _boy,_ say it,” says the House of Voodoo employee, and Taylor will never hear a customer service voice the same way again with the shiver it sends running down his spine.

“Elder Millet —”

It isn’t _politeness _that cuts Kathy off when Millet raises her hand. Not with the purpling of her face or the way she seems to gasp around unspoken words. 

“Excuses are as bad as lies, Miss Lopez,” she gives a flippant wave to her peers that breaks her unspoken spell; leaves Katherine on the verge of clawing at her throat for fragrant lily-scented air, “if Mister Ryder here has something to say who are we to force him into silence?” _Ironic, much?_

Now he’s done it — Nik can tell, too. If they want to continue he’s going to have to finish his thought and accept the consequences that come with it.

But he _is _Nik; so he squares his shoulders and stands his ground despite the unease that Taylor feels emanating from him. 

“I mean no _blatant _disrespect Elder Millet,” —to the old man— “Elder Vion,” —and to the woman still yet to look up from the paper— “Elder Daniels; but if any of you three gave a damn about the community we wouldn’t’a needed to come get you in the first place. You’d have shown your faces at the Beau-Keyes with the rest of ‘em.”

“And look what happened to them,” drawls Elder Daniels as she flips the paper to the financial section, “almost killed due to reckless stupidity and an inability to see beyond the moment.”

The private laugh the three of them share isn’t lost on anyone. In fact it makes Cal bristle and go red in the face. 

“You—You _knew _we’d be attacked? You knew and you did _nothing?!”_

Pack blood still runs deep.

Elder Vion adds a pink sugar cube to his tea. _“‘Doing nothing’_ was the ideal course of action.”

And his fellow Elders agree; “It followed the plan precisely.”

“And leaves us with an opening.”

“Though the guests will have to be taken care of first.”

“They won’t be here for long.”

“Hey—_Hey!_ Now ain’t the time to dissolve into crazy!”

Nik’s clapping isn’t just _loud _— it makes the room tremble. Glass walls, the glass panels on the ceiling all somehow stunned by the weight of his audacity. That he would dare call attention to himself, this _small, insignificant creature—_

Taylor hastily shoves his palms into the front pockets of his jeans. Like that will somehow stop the feeling prickling at his palms like a thousand tiny needles. Different than anxiety; something borderline painful. Like if he thinks about it too much it will start to hurt, but pushing it out of the forefront of his mind will keep it at bay.

He recognizes the feeling easily enough — still doesn’t know what it means or what’s causing it but there’s one answer he didn’t have before. _It has something to do with being a fae._

“So you all know what’s out… _there.”_ Taylor jerks his chin to the garden, to the French Quarter beyond and the rest of New Orleans with it. 

Given everything they’ve seen when it comes to the bloodwraith so far it’s almost _laughable _to think such a gruesome creature could exist—let alone appear—on a day like this. 

Elder Millet looks Taylor over like she’s peeling back each and every layer of him with her eyes. Maybe she is — he wouldn’t put it past magic itself. Let alone past the magic that told the Coven Elders how terrible the attack at the Beau-Keyes would be and convinced them to do fuck-all about it.

“We do.”

But they knew that. “And you know what it’s after.”

“We’ve drawn our own conclusions.”

“Do those _conclusions _tell you how close you’re getting to the top of the list?” It sounds an awful lot like a threat. Good — he wants it to be.

“Do they tell you its only a matter of time until it comes after you — after the entire Coven?”

Nik agrees; “Whose to say it’ll stop with the Elders? Someone takes your place eventually — it can go after them, and the ones that follow, and the ones after that —”

Vion scoffs around his tea. “Preposterous!”

“Actually no; not in the slightest.” Wariness, distrust hangs over Katherine in an aura of thunderclouds. And its growing. “It’s _logical.”_

The word, the very implication of it makes Millet’s fingers twitch towards something partially obscured by the teapot. At first Taylor wrote them off as napkins but now the shape and size rings familiar.

Her deck of tarot cards doesn’t like being questioned.

“Logic is the predilection of the mundane.” When Elder Daniels finally looks up from her paper its to stare directly at Katherine. Hard and unyielding. Its a look of _power;_ a silent demand for surrender. 

And she almost does. Taylor knows without a doubt that she’d deny it with her last breath but words mean nothing when he can see the flash of her soul behind stormy skies — hear the rolling thunder not far behind.

“There are a thousand and one ways to interpret any given reading. And you chose the one that would keep you out of the crossfire.

“Even if it meant turning your backs on the Accords.” 

Outside the walls of the sunroom nothing has changed. The clouds have continued to drift lazily by and the sun still beats down upon them. But when they entered the room _felt _as transparent as it looked. 

Now they may as well be trapped in a dense fog. It threatens to block out the sun; to take pleasure in wringing out their last choking breaths.

“You overstep, insolent little Nighthunter.”

Elder Daniels stands and waves her hand. Probably takes a sick sense of satisfaction in the smallest flinch Katherine fails to hold back — but instead the witches’ spread vanishes as though it was never there. 

There is no gaping absence of it — they could just as easily have been standing the entire time and had Taylor’s eyes not _seen _the table and chairs, had he not _smelled _the brewing tea or _heard _the clinking of cup against saucer, he would have a hard time explaining why he thought any of it was there in the first place.

Millet’s fingertips hover just above the surface of her tarot deck. The only physical thing to have remained. As much a member of the Elders as anything.

And the wrinkles on Vion’s leathery face have sunken deep like canyons. His movements are ancient and slow as he stands beside his fellow Elders in defiance of some unknown. 

The sides are becoming glaringly obvious.

Small as it was Daniels’ display of power served its purpose; reminded them of who—_what_—they were dealing with. A power strong enough to entice the bloodwraith and prove its worth by remaining untouched. 

The continued existence of them was a claim to power that the likes of Carlo de la Rosa and Denna the Shifter could never have dreamed of.

Taylor knows he’s not the only one of them having this _fact_ hammered home inside him. Not _solely _because it takes some big and important shit to keep Ryder silent for this long but definitely highlighted by it.

_“Perhaps,”_ Millet drags the word out solely to fuck with them, “we are the ones to be blamed. Blamed for our naivete in agreeing to this meeting disguised as an attempt to point fingers.”

And because its Katherine on the line — more than her name or reputation, but her life — she remains the sensible one. She tries to smooth-talk her way out. “With respect, Elder Millet, no one’s _pointing fingers—” _

“Save your arguments,” barks Vion, “though I’m sure they were well-rehearsed. Even blind to this physical plane as I am, I can see your true intentions for coming here.”

“Well there weren’t any, so —”

“We open our doors to you in this hour of need and yet you seek to accuse us of that which you cannot even begin to understand. Do you deny?”

It’s beginning to feel an awful lot like a trial and Taylor isn’t the only one who can feel it. He knows what the tension in Cal means — the way Nik shifts to the foot he favors standing his ground on.

But something just _isn’t right._ It’s echoing hollow in his bones; in the air around them. It fills him up, keeps filling him until he’s not sure he can stand it anymore. Until it wants to pour from his mouth or leak from his ears.

“Then why even agree to meet with us at all?” he blurts out to the surprise of the room; to himself. 

And all that pressuring weight shifts from Katherine to him. Now he’s deep in it. _Way to effing go._

Only its the first time the Elders don’t have a remark ready to be snapped at their heels. A fact that isn’t lost on them — and isn’t lost on his friends either.

And since its the only silence they might be getting any time soon he tries to roll with it in his usual word-vomit way.

“If you can see so much of the future in your cards or whatever — why agree to meet with us at all? Wouldn’t you _know _what we think of you? What everyone thinks of you? And you guys don’t seem like the type to entertain stupid people for the sake of a laugh.”

Nik gives him a very specific _‘Did you just call us stupid?’_ look. Yeah, yeah he did. 

But its rambling, and Taylor is good at rambling. Rambling is what he does best — rambling and improv monologues. 

“You guys —” he drags an accusatory finger across the spread of them, “— are the ones accusing anyone, here. Which I get, you know, because there’s a lot going on. And everyone’s scared and everyone’s got their walls up because this is—like—ten thousand leagues away from _normal _even for your crazy world.

“But if we keep pointing fingers and we keep _not helping everyone_ then what’s gonna happen? Right — the bloodwraith is gonna win. Because we’re gonna do its job for it!”

He drops his finger, then, because he’s making a point and leading by example. “Whatever reasons you may _think _we have for coming here are bullshit. No one wants to _help,_ everyone’s just in it for themselves! And seeing as literally _everyone _in the city is a target right now that’s a really _really _stupid way of thinking!”

_Like — he’s making sense, isn’t he?_ He feels almost compelled to look around not just at the Elders but at his friends, too. How many stories about _good versus evil_ demand that everyone band together in spite of their differences for their own survival; for everyone’s survival? 

They had been _so close_ at the Beau-Keyes. If they’d all been given more time who knows what they could have accomplished. Maybe Kristof would be more willing to help. Maybe Lady Smoke wouldn’t have gotten hurt. 

_Maybe Elric would stop hiding behind his wards like a coward._

Taylor sighs and it comes out a ragged thing — takes every last bit of air in his lungs and tries to wring a choked noise from his lips but he’s just _too tired._

“If you had already made up your minds about us — about helping everyone — then why bother letting us come here to ask?”

Over Elder Daniels’ shoulder, across the room and through the spotless glass wall he sees the same figure as before. Knows its them by the glint of their golden eyes. The young woman’s face is forlorn; almost weeping. Flickers like a heat mirage from young to old to young again. 

_The Fate,_ Katherine had called them. 

_Why here?_

_Why now?_

_Why won’t they_ do something_?_

“Such a rousing call to action…” says Millet with the vestiges of praise — yet it looks bitter on her tongue. 

Daniels agrees; “And from the unseen complication, no less.”

“Perhaps we underestimated him.”

“What difference would it make? Everything has gone as predicted so far.”

“One wrong move can turn the tide.”

“Yes — but _this…”_

Again they fall into whispered confidences — as though the others aren’t even there. 

Ryder almost growls. More unwilling to call them out on it than before but just as impatient. _“This was useless…”_ he hisses through gritted teeth back in Kathy’s direction.

A small movement draws Taylor’s attention to Elder Vion. To the empty space beside him.

Where The Fate — as a child, making it all the more eerie — reaches up and takes the witch’s hand in theirs. Blood soaks through their grey sleeve; drips down onto the pristine white floor. One droplet becomes two, becomes three and more. A puddle forming at their feet and spreading out of its own will.

He knows it isn’t real — that none of it is really there. There is no child and no blood not only because no one else is freaking out about it but because of the way the blood moves. Spiraling tendrils seeking to consume but only at the Elders’ feet.

The meaning of the whole disturbing sight is clear. 

_There is blood on the Elders’ hands. They’re drowning in it._

“You didn’t answer his question.”

Katherine cuts Daniels and Millet off mid-word. All that cool calculation hidden behind her pretty face; the perfect mask to hide behind. “Why’d you agree to this? What do you gain?”

Daniels’ upper lip curls. “There is nothing you could offer worth our time.” 

“Still doesn’t answer the question.”

“Do you forget _you _called upon _us?”_

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “when I thought you’d be useful. But we’re just talking in circles here!”

They are. What more do they know now compared to before? 

Nothing is making _any freakin’ sense._ Nothing except for the sickening feeling growing inside. The blood spreads — devours. Leaves the witches draped in a dark veil thicker than a fog at night and the solarium, once filled with the light breeze of lilies, reeking of rot and the sour tang of open wounds.

A scent he’s becoming all too familiar with — something Taylor never thought would ever cross his mind. 

Again there’s a prickling at his palms but this time he reaches for Ryder — a port in the gathering storm. Clasps their hands together tightly; desperately. 

Nik who does a double-take when he catches the hollow light of fear in his eyes. 

_We need to leave._

_What do you know?_

_Too much._

Too much. He knows too much. The Fate knows it and that’s why their figure has vanished but the blood seeping into the hems of the Elders’ clothes remains. The world knows it too, somehow. Keeps that damp and musty smell of molding decay stuck in his lungs and makes him choke on it. Makes his eyes water and an itching pain climb up from the inside of him begging to be let free.

He knows too much. Can’t even begin to understand the how or the why and maybe even a little bit of the what but he does. 

He knows without a shadow of a doubt that the darkness that gathers around the Coven Elders and the one hanging as a fatal noose around the bloodwraith are one in the same.

_We need to_ leave.

“It doesn’t matter Kathy,” Nik interrupts — keeps his eyes on Taylor like a grounding point; the only solid ground to stand on, “whether they answer or not it’s clear as day they don’t plan on helping anyone but themselves.

“We oughta get goin’.”

To their credit the Elders don’t deny it. 

But the sudden change is a bit too much for Katherine. “Are you—Nik what the hell?”

“Kathy —” Taylor’s wavering voice almost breaks at just her name. Its enough; enough to drag her away from frustrating thoughts building to the fact that he’s white as a sheet and on the verge of unconsciousness. _“Please.”_

She doesn’t get the chance to argue. Not when the room turns to shadows upon shadows; very real and very not-in-his-head clouds blooming across the sun over their heads.

Even when Elder Vion lowers his hand the spell continues; grows and takes hold of the sky above until the sun is nothing but a distant memory, until the shadows are only a darkness unending.

He tuts and clicks his tongue — such a normal act in contrast to the way he leans on the gnarled handle of his cane. “Finally the consequences reveal themselves.” He bites out, though his scorn is quickly directed to the Elders at his side. “Had you not wished to speed the process this wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Had _we?”_ Millet snaps; gestures with her hands so wide that one of the cards slips from her deck and flutters to the ground face-up.

The Wheel of Fortune stares lifelessly upwards.

_“You_ insisted the Council could not be allowed to congregate, Vion.”

“Indeed we acted on faith of _your vision,”_ agrees Daniels.

Vion, though, is adamant; “The consequences outweighed the risk.” 

“And what of _that,”_ Daniels thrusts a finger at Taylor, “little _consequence?_ Was it worth the knowledge he now possesses?”

The energy directed his way makes Taylor double over — from pain or pressure he doesn’t know. But Nik isn’t having it.

“What the _hell _are you crazy people talkin’ about?!” 

_“Silence!”_

There’s a loud and resistant groan over their heads. They look up just in time to see the metal framework stop — now twisted, coiled like a spring ready to snap and send the ceiling panels hurtling down in what would surely be a painful death for all but the Elders.

“You dare interrupt your betters; dare demand of those who hold absolute power over your mortal lives?!” She’s practically shrieking now; and with each crack of her voice comes a crack in the glass surrounding them. “That you continue to _live _is a testament to our generosity despite your wretched meddling! 

“But a Nighthunter _never learns._ Not until he is forced into submission!”

The bones around Elder Vion’s neck rattle on a nonexistent breeze. “To give this cur the same punishment would be my pleasure.”

“Why bother prolonging it?” adds Millet in a ravenous growl, “Kill him now and we have a second soul to cut from the veil. A second soldier to finish the task at hand.”

Cal goes rigid; taken by surprise. Now he knows. “Holy shit. It’s you.”

And now Katherine knows too; forces down the oncoming waves of revelation — keeps herself afloat with a strength well-hidden.

“You’re the ones controlling the bloodwraith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope fans of the original _Nightbound_ will continue to enjoy this story despite the wild changes; the ones so far and yet to come! I decided early on that Thomas just wasn’t The Villaintm for me and for this story. I would really love to know fans’ thoughts on everything! Thank you, as always, for reading.
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	16. What Fools These Mortals Be!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everything changes incrementally; giving the illusion that nothing has changed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** restraints, alcohol, anxiety attack, mentions of death, emotional breakdown, language

Whatever arguments may have started to divide them earlier — the Coven Elders have been accused together and they wear that accusation like a badge of honor. 

Taylor sees it now; understands. The blood at their feet serves not to drown them but to unite them in their act. In the _pride _it gives them.

“It all makes sense,” Katherine says low, almost breathlessly, “you ignored the Council because you’re the ones trying to destroy it. Of course there’s no threat to the Coven… the Coven _is _the threat.”

The presence of the beast ripples underneath Cal’s human skin. He bares his teeth as fangs, flexes nails that threaten to grow in size and strength. 

“You’re worse than _cowards _— you’re _murderers.”_

The Elders don’t just take the accusations; its like they _thrive _on them. On the answer finally revealed; spoken to the air and given power because once heard it can’t be taken back.

But there’s a difference between pride and guilt. The proud own up to their actions. The guilty simply know when to stop feigning innocence.

And Katherine isn’t _entirely _right. It doesn’t _all _make sense; rather there are so many things that _don’t _make sense that they, too, start to pile down on the weight Taylor already feels on the verge of collapsing underneath. 

They can pick at the details later. As far as he’s concerned nothing has changed except that leaving was just made _so much harder._

“Nothing to say in your defense?!” Cal’s words threaten to slur together in a long growl. He’s just over the edge of the turning point; holding the wolf within back with the lightest grasp.

Unfortunately… its enough. 

Enough to draw a sneer from Elder Daniels; to make them—quite literally—force their hand.

“Silence the mutt.”

Vion spreads his crooked fingers wide. The pressure of his magic makes Taylor’s ears ring; keeps him standing by helplessly and in pain as all around them the pots and their lilies begin to shake with new purpose.

_CRACK. _

The roots are larger than they should be; black and rotting yet strong enough to burst through the solid pots at their master’s command. They race outward and ensnare Cal like living rope. Smear soil over his flesh as they coil tight and bind him — bind the wolf within.

There’s no hesitation as Katherine draws her nearest blade — skidding to her knees as she grasps the nearest root and tries in vain to sever the connection.

_As if it would be that simple._

And all this is happening with Nik still at his side — refusing to let him fall. 

_Go help Cal, help Kathy, do something more than hold me up;_ Taylor wants to say. Would, too, if he didn’t see the burning fury barely restrained on Nik’s expression.

“WHY?!” he demands; shouts because he knows what happened the last time he pissed them off and he’s a man with a death wish; happy to do it again.

Elder Millet seems almost offended that he need ask. “As if the powerless could even hope to understand. Tiny, fragile minds corrupted with the Here and Now — unable to see what is to come; what it will cost us.”

“You’re not making any sense!”

“Because you do not have the capacity to understand!”

Taylor breathes in through his nose, hard and burning. Fights down the continued waves of _aberration _that chip away at him like a chisel to stone to look Millet dead in the eye. 

_“What… do you think you saw…?”_

She looks back unashamed. “An Evil the likes of which the world has never seen. Spreading a hand across the horizon and laying waste to all that falls within its shadow.”

“The bloodwraith.”

“No—insolent, ignorant halfling…” she snarls back, “the wraith was the cure to the disease. The lesser of the two Evils, but the only one allowed to come to pass.”

It _is _an answer, but that’s the only thing. It _isn’t _a reason, or a justification. Not to anyone but them. 

“And this—this Evil—you’re trying to tell us _the Council_ had something to do with starting it?” Nik takes the full weight of him, now. 

Before Millet can speak Daniels raises a hand to stop her. Doesn’t deem them worth the explanation. “You are incapable of understanding.”

“Try me, witch.”

In Taylor’s eyes she’s wading through a lake of blood as she approaches. Leaves not one but hundreds of red-stained and smearing footprints in the wake of each step. 

Instinct drives Nik to try and pull himself, Taylor back to some semblance of safety but instinct is no match for magic. It keeps them frozen in place; caught mid-turn. The tension of an agonizing step trapped within his muscles and threatening to tear his physical form in pieces when it snaps.

Daniels reaches for them — “Don’t touch me—back off!” growls the Nighthunter; but it’s futile — and shows a gentleness so uncharacteristic to what they’ve seen so far from her that it renews his nausea in the way she strokes Ryder’s chin.

“There is no such thing as unity under many. The divisions were clear… and the future all but made destiny. There was but one chance. One choice to be made in the hopes that this community — our city beloved — would not be swept up in the chaos. 

“Only under the Coven, and the Coven _alone,_ does New Orleans stand a chance of surviving the flood to come.”

Behind her the other Elders share the same resolution, the same acceptance of a still unspoken fate. Vion’s aged hand trembles with the strain of his magic but his voice is clear and strong. 

“Come Hell and high waters.”

“Come Hell and high waters,” Millet parrots; and she need only hold out her open palm for the Wheel of Fortune to glide back to the safety of a completed deck.

With her jaw set Daniels completes the mantra; “Come Hell and high waters.” 

_No, not a mantra. A _prophecy _— a _promise.

Whatever they have seen as a collective — they demand the rest of New Orleans accept that the evils they have wrought are the better alternative. _What the actual fuck._

“But _why him?”_

He isn’t the only one caught by surprise. The way Nik’s fingertips dig into his shoulders; hold him tight in the face of whatever is to come now that they’re privy to the Big Bad Plan — he feels undeserving of it.

“An unfortunate circumstance to be sure,” though the way Daniels’ upper lip curls while looking him over Taylor feels less _unfortunate _and more _meddlesome,_ like a smudge of dirt on her expensive shoes, “one that could have hindered us under the right conditions… especially when you were brought onto the board. 

“But fear is a powerful thing, Nighthunter. The fear of the unknown — and the fear of _being _known.”

Millet shuffles her deck idly. “Inconsequential in the end.”

There was a time Taylor would have been relieved to hear of how _inconsequential _he was to all of this. Especially in the early days — when it seemed like his name had somehow ended up on the bloodwraith’s hit list by mistake. 

Now it only leaves him feeling helpless. _Mortal._

But when did that become _not _a good thing?

Each breath Taylor manages is shallower than the last. There’s not enough oxygen getting to his brain — not enough in the room to share. He’d give it all to Cal to keep him alive if he could. _Can he?_

He wants to ask Elder Daniels… but his tongue appears to be swollen too large for his throat.

The now-familiar figure of The Fate hovers over her shoulder. So close that if it was really there no doubt the witch would feel their breath wet on the nape of her neck.

The Fate closes their eyes. Bows their head of short—long—curly—straight—no hair down in mourning. 

* * *

Nik tries to get Taylor to just _take _his coat for a fourth time — even has the right arm out of the sleeve which is farther than he’d gotten on previous attempts — but he continues to refuse it. 

Maybe before attempt number five he’ll understand it isn’t the coat that he’s trying to crawl inside of. But the safety of something—_someone_—as solid as his bodyguard.

The base of Cal’s tumbler meets the bartop so hard he’s surprised nothing breaks. 

“Another.”

Garrus already has the whiskey in hand but hesitates. He’s a good person like that. There are still a few good people left in the world.

“Maybe you should let what you’ve got settle first, my friend.”

The werewolf’s grip tightens on his glass. His skin is flushed red, knuckles pale. But he could be covered in _Mardi Gras_-themed body paint and the bruises from Elder Vion’s spell would still shine through.

_“Another.” _And Garrus pours — because good people just want to help.

At her back booth Ivy slams another dusty tome closed — another dead end and another very un-Ivy like hiss of rage pushing out of her like a monster’s cry.

She’s checked them over for bogies, hexes, and curses over and over again. Nothing to be found, yet every time she thinks of a new spell there she is attempting it at their backs. 

As she’s whispered under her breath over a dozen times now she _just can’t understand why the Elders had let them go._ They let her continue because they can’t understand it either, and if anyone has a good chance of figuring it out its her.

But yeah — it’s starting to get a little annoying.

They walked out of 937 Prytania Street four hours ago. The last three hours have been the most trying of Taylor’s life.

Every time he thinks he wants a drink, wants to numb the pain the way he’s most familiar with and is very very good at, he moves just a little bit closer to Nik. They’re practically on the same stool.

What happens now?

His body answers because his head is still recovering. Pulls him up from where he sits — grip lingering on a leather cuff — before he pulls away entirely.

“I’m gonna…” Only he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence — where his feet will carry him is just as much a surprise to him as the rest of them. 

He’s on the apartment landing by the time Nik catches up.

“Taylor — hold up a sec, will ya?”

He does the bare minimum in not opening the door. Now that he’s gotten some distance, though, its like his body is switching to autopilot. Finds he can’t look Nik in the face, or say anything beyond a grunt of affirmation.

Nik leans against the wall, ducks and weaves his head in an obvious attempt to catch Taylor’s eye that he doesn’t humor because he can’t. “I know you’re prob’ly still mad at me about — about the hospital. And you’ve got the right idea ‘bout restin’ up before we start plannin’ our next move, but maybe you shouldn’t be alone right now.”

_Maybe I should stay with you_ is his unspoken offer. And he knows just how much courage he had to muster up to offer — to try and open up rather than hide away in his flask like he so desperately wants to. 

Only Taylor doesn’t understand _why _he knows that. Why he’s suddenly in Nik’s head in the same way he was in Elder Daniels’ head, the same way he was in all the Elders’ heads. 

The only reason he wishes he knew is so he could _turn it off._

Taylor squeezes the doorknob and uses up the last of his mental and physical strength to keep from sobbing — because he _swears _the metal starts to yield under his touch.

“I’m not resting, but your choice.”

Leaving the door open behind him isn’t an invitation for Nik to join him but its not a rejection either. He doesn’t have to check if the man has followed behind. 

“Maybe you should, though.”

“Where was that attitude when all this started?”

“Damn, Rook. The same place that lip was hidin’ I bet.”

“This isn’t something I can just _sleep off._ It —” he falters, doesn’t know how to go on, “— it doesn’t matter.” _It doesn’t. _

_Inconsequential,_ remember?

And he almost makes it. Almost manages to have enough of a chip on his shoulder that Nik actually turns back towards the stairs. 

Taylor’s starting to feel bad about hurting him. But if Kristin, Vera, Cal were any indication — Nik was just on a long but inevitable list.

He only _almost _makes it because Nik is, under all his armor, a decent man. Because he turns back ready to offer one final parting statement of comfort and sees Taylor take out his frustration on his phone charger. The way he rips it out of the wall so hard it lashes in a way his tongue can’t at the moment; shoves it in his front pocket like he hopes it breaks.

“You goin’ somewhere?”

He stands in the doorway; as immovable and solid as the door but somehow more. Arms crossed over his chest and its like a throwback to the Nik Ryder he met the other night. Like nothing of importance has happened in the spaces in between. _Nothing important _has _happened,_ he supposes, _nothing that really makes a difference — that can change the inevitable._

No fucking wonder the Coven Elders let them go. They aren’t a threat; not to the bloodwraith — proven twice over by now, and not to the Elders themselves. All that’s left now is to wait for it to come and take him the same way it took Carlo and Denna. 

“Is that what’s botherin’ you,” Nik asks, though Taylor had no idea he’d been speaking aloud, “you think I’d let that thing anywhere near you?”

Then that’s it — they’re gonna do this and there’s no avoiding it. Fine. Makes Taylor pivot on his heel and it must have been a subconscious act on his part to avoid looking at Nik full-force because even facing him it feels like he’s collided face-first into a cement wall of Ryder-related emotions. None of them his but… that doesn’t matter. 

The emotions don’t need to be _his _to be felt by him.

“What’s the point in pretending anymore, Nik?”

“Who’s _pretending _anythin’?”

_“You!_ Standing there pretending that there’s still a chance. That—that this isn’t over; that they haven’t already won.” Wow does it feel good to say that out loud.

Across from him Nik looks stunned. He’d make a snapped comment about dropping whatever act of innocence he thinks he can manage but no — no Taylor can feel it. It’s not an act.

Some part of cynical asshole Nik Ryder thinks they still have a snowball’s chance in hell of weathering this storm. 

“Rook… what’s gotten into you?”

“Stop.”

“Seriously — this doesn’t sound like you at all.”

“Oh yeah, and _how the fuck would you know?”_ The door is open and the _Shift _is empty save their friends and he’s shouting and he really couldn’t give less of a fuck because its like wave after wave of soothing relief washing over him. Leaves his voice hoarse, cracking in his throat but compared to all the other types of pain he’s been in recently its a cakewalk.

“Seriously, Ryder, how the fuck would you know _what I’m like?_ Because to my knowledge you’ve only known me for—what—five days? Hell probably four when you take into account the fact I’ve blacked out cold twice. At least back when I was drinking I was having _fun _up until the unconsciousness thing.

“Oh and, you know, since I apparently need to make it _very clear_ to you; _none of this has been fucking fun.”_

Taylor hates him. Hates his cool messy hair and his little scars that show how worldly he is; how much he knows about the _real _real world. And right now more than anything he hates how the man’s remaining so fucking calm.

“Is that right?” is Nik’s snarky reply — and he hates that too, “well you must be the only one not enjoyin’ it, since I know for a fact Lowell down there’s real-damn-eager to have a repeat performance.”

Taylor recoils because it stings. Words sting; that’s why they have power. But the memory of Cal bound… that brief instant when Daniels raised her hand and he thought strangled gasps would be the last thing he’d ever hear from the man…

It makes him shake in rage, in fear, in grief. 

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“I said _stop it.”_

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Rook,” any other time it would be interesting, even _fascinating _to witness the way he sees the energy and intent build up in the man’s legs—sees in his mind’s eye like a reality folded over the one they’re standing in a different Nik take those steps forward and embrace a different Taylor who breaks down in his arms — any other time, “I’m only followin’ your lead.”

He shakes his head until it hurts. “You’re mocking me — riling me up. Stop it!”

“And how would I know how to do that, huh? How would I know which of your fuckin’ hundred-thousand complicated buttons to push to get you all riled up? ‘Cause you’re right — I am. Seems to me the only way I can get you to feel anything at all is by forcing you!”

“Oh my _god_—” but try as he might there really isn’t anything left in him to hold back the hurricane; the first tears starting to fall down his cheeks, “— you—_fuck you, Nik._ You’re the one who did this to me! Got me involved in all this shit and made me realize my whole life’s a fucking lie and—and _changed me_ somehow so now all I do is feel! 

“I can’t stop feeling, Nik, I can’t… I can’t stop… I can’t feel I — can’t stop…” 

There’s that same building tension — only this time it’s solid; it’s real. It’s Taylor’s knees aching on the apartment floor and his body shaking so hard he’s actually medically worried about himself but Nik is there. Holding him — keeping him as still as he can in an embrace warmer than it should be and tighter than it should be and _needed more than it should be._

“EE—Ever since Lamrian,” he struggles for air; is drowning in his tears, “ever since Elric—h-he _did something_ to me. I felt it. Felt—felt _him._ What he was feeling. Knew what he knew and s-saw things from… from before I was even _born _like? That’s_ impossible.”_

“No, actually it’s not.”

“I —”

“There’s this thing among fae folk; Living Memory. You heard ‘em mention it a few times,” he’s silent — takes Taylor longer than he’d admit to realize he’s waiting for acknowledgment and only continues when he gets it, “and it kinda is what it sounds like. They’re heavy spiritual beings, the fae. I guess they can literally put a piece of their soul in important memories so they’re never forgotten. I guess you could call it bookmarking them for later.”

“But —”

“Lemme finish.”

“I — yeah.”

Nik’s nod is approving. “You’ve always been able to see through glamours—we know that. But I’m guessin’ you weren’t runnin’ around the backyard throwin’ grimfire at your friends for tag.”

“That’s dumb.”

“Sure is — but it means you got that nifty little trick from when Elric helped you at the Beau-Keyes. If just bein’ _near _your own kind gave you that kinda power then it makes sense if you think about it. Lamrian’s a piece of the _fae _realm in ours. Living Memory is a shared _fae _soul. Honestly I was wonderin’ what kinda wacky mojo you’d end up chucking out. 

“I’ll admit, though — I was really hopin’ it would be something to help us out when shit went down with the Coven.”

That’s all it takes — one little thing to fucking _ruin _it. To make him try to wrangle his way out of Nik’s arms, to try and hit him because who the fuck _says something like that?_ If he could have done something doesn’t Nik think he _would have?_

“Fuck—fuck you, fuck y—”

But Nik’s a vice. Or a particularly stubborn stain. He’s got his claws in and won’t be letting go any time soon. “Hey — _stop._ You know what I meant.”

“There was just… there was so much blood, Nik.” When he closes his eyes the world is red with eyes of gold. “So much blood.”

Its enough for the man to pry them apart just enough — Taylor never thought he’d miss that stern businesslike twitch in his scarred brow but there’s a first time for everything. 

Especially this week.

“Tell me what you saw.”

He spares most of the details — _who _he’s sparing though is a debate for another day. But it’s harder than he thought it would be — not describing the blood, that… that’s worryingly simple.

There are things he remembers that he doesn’t _know _he remembers until he speaks them aloud. In giving them a name, a description — it feels like he’s willing them into existence. The shadows that were once formless cloaks around the Elders’ bodies now taking on the shape of the bloodwraith, of many; scattered between them lurking like movement in a mirror out of the corner of the eye.

And fuck all if he knows just how he comes to this particular conclusion, but Taylor finds himself developing _sympathy _for the blighted beast.

“None of the Elders summoned it,” he says, and makes it true by doing so, “none of them hold its leash. They control where it goes and who it attacks, but there’s, like, a middle man or something.

“If it was set free the Elders would be the first ones to die. I’m… I’m certain of it.”

“I don’t doubt you Rook, not for a second.”

“But…” He looks up — doesn’t remember at what point they found themselves leaning under the kitchenette counter like it’s a lean-to on a deserted island but its low on the list of immediate concerns — and forgets _words _for a moment as he watches the cool calculation of the Nighthunter soften in… in Nik’s very _being._

He would like to note that his previous outburst, while fueled by irrational rage at the unknown, is still completely valid. He knows next to nothing about Nik Ryder and apparent secret fae-slash-elven heritage aside Nik Ryder knows next to nothing about him.

And you _totally _need to know more than jack shit about someone to fall head-over-heels for them, right?

_Right?_

“Don’t leave me hangin’ now.” He teases down at Taylor. 

Taylor who kinda-sorta falls in love with the genuine crinkles at the corners of his eyes. 

Too bad, though. Because if this were a movie or story like he’s been pretending then that love might be enough to save the day. 

Too bad because it isn’t, and it won’t be. 

_“But_ nothing’s changed. We can’t stop the wraith or the Elders. One way or another it’ll come for me and it’ll kill me.”

Nik grabs his chin between two fingers. Rasps a very serious, very _final _“Over my dead body,” and ensures he has the last word with a kiss Taylor can now _quite literally_ feel in his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I wanted to give a very big **thank you** to everyone who has helped this story reach 100 hits! It means the world to me. Second, much like usual, I hope any die-hard fans are enjoying the changes in relevance to the story. Comments and critique would be most appreciated as I’m eager to know what you guys liked or didn’t. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Find out more about _Bound by Circumstance_, the _Oblivion Bound_ series, and Taylor at my writeblr: jcckwrites


	17. The Show Must Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because tomorrow is no longer guaranteed the gang decides to spend a night at the theatre. In which Cal despises Shakespeare, Garrus and Krom go on an unofficial first date, and Taylor confronts his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** language, caution warning for absent parental figures

He’s honestly surprised the director even bothers reaching out to him.  


_“Given everything your cousin has told me about the problems you have going on right now, I’m sure this isn’t really a surprise. I’ve taken the liberty of filing a personal leave of absence for you.”_ And Taylor just knows that was the happiest day of Antoni’s life…

_“Even though you can’t _be_ in the show, though, you’re still welcome to come Sunday. Hoping that, obviously, things have cleared up on your end by then. Just text me your head count before noon day-of, okay?”_

It’s the first real and true _good thing_ to happen without immediate consequence so far. And of course he tries to blow it off, tries to tell everyone he has absolutely no plans to put anyone else at risk just for the selfish sake of seeing a play he’s worked on for months and doesn’t even get to be in.

Not that anyone lets him _finish _before they straight-up tell him he’s wrong, he’s going, and if all hell breaks loose then they’ll deal with it when it happens.

“But the wards —”

“The wards have proven themselves useless,” Garrus interrupts with no small level of frustration; accepting the vulnerability of his sanctuary hasn’t been easy on the man, “we’re just as exposed here as you would be there. And I refuse to cower in fear. If they were going to attack they would have by now — don’t stop living your life because of what _might _happen.”

Surprisingly, too, Katherine makes a good point; “We might actually be _safer _surrounded by all those mundanes. A high fatality rate isn’t what the Elders are after, that much is certain.”

It’s about the only thing any of them are certain of.

So there’s really no way around it. 

Sunday morning he tries to take a head count. Doesn’t argue when Vera, despite the dark circles of exhaustion under her eyes, insists that of course she wants to come. She doesn’t say it but its obvious she could use time away from the hospital and her mother’s bedside. 

Nik’s phone vibrates on the table and Taylor glances just because he’s nearby. On really good timing the man chooses then to wander out from the bedroom — rubbing his hair vigorously with his towel.

“Kathy said she and Cade are down if we don’t mind.” One look and Taylor regrets it _so bad._ He’s not_ certain,_ but there’s absolutely no way _all _of his shirts have miraculously shrunk, right?

He totally has to buy them just shy of too tight.

Not that Taylor’s complaining. Nope. No complaining here.

Ryder gives a noncommittal grunt and shrug as he passes. “Your shindig, your choice.”

“I mean they’re our friends, so…”

There’s a pause; a lag in the matrix if you will, between when Nik stops in front of the fridge and actually opens it. Keeps his back turned as he replies, “Then the more the merrier.”

He doesn’t need to be part fae to know what that’s about — but it doesn’t hurt. 

The concept of _friends _is plural and consistent. And just as weird for him as it is for the loner Nik is accustomed to being.

Yesterday was hard and heavy. 

Today is no better from a cosmic point of view. 

But its softer around the edges; the difference between being stabbed with a wicked sharp dagger and being punched in the face. 

Nik all but flops down on the couch beside him; pushes the open guide on reading and interpreting tarot that Taylor’s been pouring over away with a socked foot. 

“I was reading that.”

“Oops.” The only unapologetic apology he’s getting, too, so he takes it.

Its been nearly twenty-four hours since his emotional breakdown and in that time he’s learned more about Ryder — and vice versa — than would have been shared on five, six dates tops. Things that wouldn’t come up without specific and out-of-left-field context, too.

Like the fact that Nik is a cheap-ass (this he knew) who has a serious case of the moonlight munchies — two things that mix about as well as oil and water. So it makes sense now why half of the fridge’s sparse contents are signature drink and cocktail add-ons. 

Does it justify the fact that a fully grown man is sitting very close to him popping green olives like pieces of candy? _Not in the fucking slightest._

But he knows what’s going to happen the second Nik sees his disgust — tries his best to turn away before he’s caught. Only he’s not quick enough and its too late. 

“Want one?” Nik asks even though he knows the answer. 

He doesn’t have time to deflect because the man picks one up and tosses it — doubles over in laughter when it bounces off Taylor’s cheek, falls to the floor, and rolls under the nearest chair to die alone.

“What are you,” he fake-gags and wipes his cheek angrily, “twelve years old?”

His glare very nearly breaks under the sheer audacity of Ryder’s pouting face. Only _nearly _because there’s no fucking way he’s kissing that offensive mouth no matter how closely the man leans in. “Aw c’mon Rook — jus’ one kiss!”

“Get away from me! Ew!”

“You know you like me~”

“Wrong! Incorrect! You disgust me!”

And of course they’re joking but he’s maybe a little _too _loud in his protests. Earns himself a haughty snort and a glare directed at his feet of all things.

“You walk around barefoot and _I’m _the disgusting one.”

“That’s what I said.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Uh, I do — so I win.”

Despite the fact that they had spent the previous hours getting to know not only (truly repulsive) snacking habits but also (much less repulsive, like the opposite of repulsive actually) one another’s mouths, Nik follows the same pattern each time. Roams his eyes over every inch of Taylor’s face like he’s gung-ho on taking the test in his sleep — drags a fingernail feather-light over the scruff on his jawline.

Their first time hadn’t been enough to ward him away and for that Taylor’s pretty fucking grateful. But it left a mark on him. No doubt its the reason why he always takes five whole agonizing seconds between the start and the follow-through. 

Like he’s giving Taylor time to pull back; to reject him without consequence.

Maybe one day they’ll laugh about it. A silly habit no longer necessary. Because there’s always a breath hidden in the meeting of mouths that tastes of bitter relief. 

Nik is relieved — not once, or twice, but _every single time._

Which is more than a little tragic when he gives it a deep thought. He tries not to — really, he does. 

Its easy not to think about anything at all when they’re kissing. 

So that’s something.

* * *

Taylor knows that glamours serve a specific purpose; to disguise the average not-human supernatural person among the average yes-human person. 

He’s even come to terms with how easily they fade into the background now. How he can scan a crowd and catch a glimpse of hooves in place of boots or a tail whipping its way behind someone trying to pass by. He considers his largest achievement to be not jumping ten feet in the air at the difficult-to-describe sight of ghosts possessing glamoured bodies.

But he can know and process all of these things and still be almost alarmingly paranoid about the trio of Krom, Garrus, and Ivy waiting in line behind them, right?

Nik grabs his head before he can look back for the umpteenth time; turns it back forward with a grunt. “The only one looking weird here is you, Rook. Everyone else sees regular folk.”

And he _knows that,_ he does. But… “Do you ever stop worrying about it, like, slipping or something?”

“Not my problem if it does.” 

“Well yeah, but…” The line shuffles forward and he trails off. Probably better not to give those particular anxieties a life of their own by voicing them aloud. 

He doesn’t have to anyway, apparently. Since Taylor finds himself pulled against Nik’s side, feels warm breath tickle in his ear. 

“Don’t worry. You still look completely human.”

“For now.”

The performer playing Puck stands in half-costume at the front of the line with a clipboard in hand. He has a whole two-point-five seconds to remember her name — _Dana? Debbie? D-something. D-something… fuck there are too many D-something names!_ — before its their turn to enter the theatre. 

_Daphne!_ It comes to him like a holy revelation as she starts to go through the motions — only to notice the name and double-take in surprise.

“Hey Hunter, how’s it going?” Her small-talk is strained but polite. They’ve run lines together and he can vaguely recall being educated on her literal herd of mini dachshunds once, but whatever his ‘cousins’ gave by way of excuse for him pulling out of the show is enough to make her sheepish.

He makes a mental note to corner Garrus for the full story after the show. Especially since ‘cousin’ is a more-or-less accurate term these days.

“Uh, you know,” a one-shouldered shrug, “hanging in there. You excited?”

To her credit as an actress she checks off each body accompanying him, _all eight of them,_ without batting an eye. 

“Totally. I’m just glad the actual opening night ain’t until _Mardi Gras_ is over, you know?”

“Director didn’t let you work the beads into your improv then I take it?”

They share a laugh. She waves them inside. 

Only when they’re around a corner does Taylor let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Vera gives him a nudge. “You okay?”

“Yeah — was it just me or was that…”

Cal pokes his head in between them. “Awkward as hell? No—it wasn’t just you.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

In less than a week he’s forgotten how to, well, be human. Socialize with humans, talk casually with humans. Its unnerving — not only that but it serves to remind him _by the way the Coven and their pet skeleton assassin are still out there. _

None of this is even close to being over and he’s already forgotten _small talk? _

What else might be lost along the way?

“You look like you’re thinkin’ too much about something.”

Taylor’s smile is strained and not enough to ease Nik’s doubts. What did he expect though; that one soulful look from those fathomless eyes, or a touch that sends shivers down his spine, or one of those disarmingly sincere smiles is all it would take to make him forget his worries completely?

If only it were that simple. Not that he’s turning any of those things down — no no, he’s free to keep trying as many times as he’d like.

Its a half-full house on purpose; one full run in front of a crowd before a week of changes to make the final thing as smooth as possible.

And it was supposed to be Taylor’s time to shine; a performance of understudies. He’s told himself there will be other opportunities, that this is for the best given what’s going on. He wanted to come to support his fellow actors — to celebrate in all the work they’ve done over the last few months.

He didn’t think it would be that hard to watch. Then the space goes dark and silence falls in a warm velveteen hush.

The trio of Theseus, Hippolyta, and Philostrate take the stage — a different blocking than what they used at his last rehearsal.

The heels of his palms are pressed hard to stop his tears before Theseus even opens his mouth.

To his left Vera lets out a soft noise; both sad and comforting as her tentative hand on his shoulder turns into slow circular motions on his back. And he knows the heat-leeching palm behind him is Cal. Cal didn’t even want to come — had made it very clear there was once a school play, a bad batch of cafeteria vegetables, and a lifelong aversion to Shakespeare whose details would never again see the light of day. But there he is giving comfort where he can. He’s probably glad for something else to focus on than the stage but he knows Cal by now — knows he does nothing without meaning to do it.

Just when Taylor’s sure he’s going to have to make a mad dash for the doors, however, a familiar hand slides into his. Nik’s focus is still intent on the scene unfolding but he squeezes his fingers and doesn’t seem to care about the tears between their palms.

He’s supposed to be up on that stage. He’s supposed to be sweating under the heat of the lights and praying to the thespian gods that the tape on his mic holds fast. He’s supposed to be giving the performance of his life to an audience of friends and loved ones knowing Kristin was back in New York, that his mother couldn’t make it, and that there was no one watching that was there just for him.

Instead he’s here in the crowd. Instead he’s surrounded by friendship’s concern and holding the hand of the guy who seems to be making it a habit of standing in between him and certain death.

Instead he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

* * *

When the lights slide back on for intermission Cadence whirls around in his seat, arm thrown over the back, to practically barrage Krom with questions about artistic representation, choices made and things changed. 

It feels a little bit like being back in a college classroom. Not the first time Cade has that effect on people.

“I — I really only helped with small stuff,” the stone troll stammers his protests, “heavy lifting or working on things normal people couldn’t reach.”

“But you’re a writer are you not?”

“An _amateur _at best…”

But the vampire isn’t having it. “Nonsense, I’ve caught snippets of your work. I only mean —”

“Ugh, just humor the man will you?” Katherine groans, rolls her head back on her own seat with a lighthearted glare between the two.

Nik pulls Taylor’s attention away from their talk with an arm around his shoulder. “How’s it so far? On the other side of the stage.”

“They changed a few things —” — more than a few, and more to do with Oberon than any other character so three guesses who made _that _call — “— but I honestly just keep counting their steps for the blocking.”

“Nerd,” scoffs the man, and Taylor isn’t exactly going to deny it.

Actually, since they have a second…

Last he knew, being borderline psychic was _his _thing, not Ryder’s. But Nik’s moved his legs before Taylor even stands and makes him backtrack real quick on _that._

“I figured you’d wanna go say hey to them, or whatever,” and though that’s the spoken explanation Taylor can’t stop himself from feeling the real intention behind it.

He just _cares._

He ducks his head to hide a flushed smile; murmurs “thanks” and lets his lips linger at the corner of Nik’s mouth as he shimmies into the aisle.

Only when he’s at the door does it occur to him that this _thing _between them is a recent one, and they’ve not mentioned things like public affection. But judging by the look he throws over his shoulder — catches Ivy hitting the man on the arm repeatedly and the bewildered grin on her undead face?

Its just another thing to tease him over.

Its standard stuff; the small lines by the bathrooms, crew members in their all-black ensembles bustling this and that around. All things he’s familiar with — that he doesn’t bat an eye at. 

Then he spares a glance — less than that, actually, calling it a glance is somehow generous — down one of the hallways leading to further seating. The lights are off, the doors no doubt locked. Makes sense for an audience this size.

He doesn’t know _why _he does. Only knows both suddenly and all at once who he’ll see in the shadows beyond.

Taylor wants _so badly_ to just ignore it. To reach out and knock on the doors to the maze of back rooms and do exactly what he planned on; congratulating his fellow performers. 

But he doesn’t. 

By now Taylor’s helped Garrus enough in the bottomless pit he calls a storage room to know that fae folk don’t ‘glow.’ They just always look like they do. 

Elric, too, looks like he snatched a few moonbeams for himself on his way inside. 

The shadows don’t retreat from him but they are withered by his presence; by the aura of him. Had he looked like that in Lamrian, as natural as light itself? Or was he witnessing yet another new facet to his senses brought on by interference of the man who really shouldn’t be here.

When Taylor opens his mouth to speak nothing comes out; a dozen questions all fighting to leap from the tip of his tongue and giving him pause. 

Finally he settles on something more akin to an accusation.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He doesn’t _mean _to wound the fae Lord — but also won’t deny that the recoil of remorse he gets in response isn’t a teeny bit satisfying.

“No, I should not.”

“Glad we agree.” Of course he wants to ask _why are you here_ but he shouldn’t have to. 

Surprisingly, he doesn’t. “I caught whispers of this event within your mind. Lines from a script, a dedication — a pride. I wished to see what it truly was. Living Memories are shaped by the person to whom the memories belong.”

And here he had thought he’d be spared of a headache tonight, of all nights.

“I — what I — there’s so much to unpack there,” and nothing amused in his dry laugh either, “so we’ll start with the fact that I didn’t do a—a Living Memory-thing. I don’t even know how.”

“To accept Memories is to offer up your own.”

“Gee, that would have been nice to know.” 

“Do not blame yourself —”

“Oh, I’m not. No worries there.”

“I should have explained it to you. Not then; not in such dire times.”

“Then when?”

“Long before now.” Elric’s eyes are like diamonds; diamonds twisted into sharp, construction-grade drills trying to puncture holes straight through him. The intensity is unnerving if he’s being honest. 

About as unnerving as getting what he’s pretty sure is a ‘More Proactive Parent’ apology from this guy he literally just met the other night. Not even a guy — a _fae._

Elric reaches out as if to touch his hand. The movement is enough — breaks Taylor from his little trance so he can pull back. Pale fingers instead close around air and grieve their mistake.

“I did not like the way things were left in Lamrian, Taylor.”

_Taylor — like he has any right to say the name he chose all on his own._

“That’s _your_ problem. But yeah, I can see how refusing to help your own son to save yourself might leave a bad taste in your mouth.”

It’s a very _nice burn, high five _kind of moment right up until the shadows creep up onto the fae’s expression. “I have the safety of an entire community to put first. Forgive me for prioritizing my life’s work and the many lives under my care over the child who only seems to acknowledge our connection when it suits his insults.”

Damn… nice burn… high five…

“Are you, Taylor?”

He swallows the lump in his throat. “Am I what?”

“Are you acknowledging me as your…?” He leaves it hanging there, juicy bait in murky waters. And Taylor isn’t starving — not quite yet — but he’s definitely not full either.

He glances back to the theatre atrium. 

The background noise is quieter down here but soon enough everyone will be heading back to their seats. No doubt the curtain won’t even be fully opened before Nik is bounding out the doors to find him.

“Look, Lord Elric…” 

Who acts like the title brings him pain; “Please, call me —”

“— I’m _not _calling you Dad; or Pop, Father, or any variation thereof —”

_“If you would listen as often as you speak._ I would ask you to call me Elric.”

Even that feels like a boundary they shouldn’t cross. What good is to come of being friendly, getting to know one another — especially when he’s facing the very likely chance of being dead by Tuesday?

_On the other hand, _whispers a voice in the back of his head, _what’s the harm in getting to know your actual father — especially facing the very likely chance of being dead by Tuesday?_

First, how rude can you be? Second, nobody asked you, rude little voice. 

But after several dragging moments of internal arguing the voice ends up winning. Still rude though.

“What do you want out of this, Elric? What did you hope to gain from coming here?”

He looks almost affronted. “I wished to… connect with you. You are… my child. A miracle I had not even believed let alone known of.”

_My child._ Two simple words that ring in his ears unpleasantly.

“My plate’s full enough. I don’t know if I have room for ‘connecting.’”

“Would it not be worth _trying?”_

Taylor throws his hands up in exasperation. “Maybe! Fuck — maybe… maybe if I wasn’t so scared of dying. Or if I thought I had the time. But whatever the Coven Elders are planning it’s —”

Elric’s eyes widen, but that isn’t what cuts him off. Every hair on his body stands up at the same time. Without a chill, without a touch. It’s a feeling; powerful and consuming and _coming from the fae Lord._

“Oh right,” because Elric refused to help and they’d gone to the Elders and that was that, “you don’t know. Yeah, the Coven’s the one who summoned the wraith. It’s a whole thing — I don’t have the time to go into it and I kinda don’t even want to because tonight was supposed to be one last attempt at _normal_ but joke’s on me I guess.”

“You will _make _the time.” 

He’d consider going at him for trying to use what he probably thinks is a tone of fatherly authority on Taylor — if it wasn’t so strikingly familiar. Commanding the wisdom and strength of his years both gone and yet to come. It demands respect, to be heard and the weight of every word understood.

Its the Elric he’d met for the first time in the Beau-Keyes Garden, and its kind of a relief.

_Would have been useful yesterday, though._

He sums the encounter up as best he can; keeps throwing looks back over his shoulder as a sort of passive-aggressive-meets-non-confrontational way of saying he’s being held up. 

And yes, _logically _he should be happy Elric is changing his tune no matter the reason. But he’s petty and spiteful and _hey, nobody’s perfect._

By the time Taylor finishes Elric is already deep in thought — strings of thought becoming ropes, knots; an intricate web displayed across his entire person with just a look. 

_Another one of those looks he’s seen in the mirror, actually._

But they’re just thoughts. Not actions. He doesn’t need to be a little psychic to know that.

“No doubt my breath would be a wasted one were I to ask you to return to Lamrian with me.”

Elric means well — but that doesn’t make it any better.

“What, like — leave my friends behind to die and abandon the entire community that doesn’t even know what’s coming for it?”

He doesn’t say anything; doesn’t have to. “And—And what would I do,” continues Taylor, “just hang out with you and your wife, maybe do something productive like learn the pan flute or whatever?”

“This is not a matter to make light of.”

“You’re damn right it isn’t!” Fuck it, he’s shouting and doesn’t care who hears now. “I can’t believe you. Cowering in safety alone is one thing but to try and drag me down with you? That’s messed up; you’re messed up.”

“You do not know of what you speak — of the centuries our kind spend trying to conceive.”

“I’m not one of you.”

“You are, denying it hurts only yourself. By all accounts you _are _a miracle, Taylor. But children among the fair folk are few and far between. So for you to stand there — to twist my words as though they mean nothing…”

It’s a little hard to keep his composure when Elric’s voice cracks. It doesn’t make any of it okay — not by a long shot — but there’s a _wrongness _to that tone normally even and cultured sounding choked with emotion.

He even tries to swallow it down. It doesn’t work. “I have seen the cost of bravery. And to see you so passionate — so determined to fight this battle that I am certain was never meant to be yours. It ensnares me in a way you cannot yet understand. Pride overtakes me, yet I am made immobile.

“I have seen enough in my life to know when fighting is parallel to dying. No matter how brief the battle or noble the purpose there are some forces that cannot be overcome.”

He takes Taylor’s hand. Clammy and cold and he tries to hide it but Taylor knows the effects of a panic attack from personal experience that no matter how refined the otherworldly creature is you can’t always hide the tremors in your fingertips.

Like before he feels a tug in his gut. Something hooking into his center of gravity and puling him, or his essence, closer. 

Hears the fae clear in his mind; terrified, heartbroken, _too much._

_I could not bear the sight of you among the casualties. Do not ask it of me. I beg of you._

Over-thinking about the heartbreak in every word, about the things he can’t possibly understand that allow Elric to feel so much and _so hard_ for a person he doesn’t know — it’s not a luxury Taylor can afford right now. And not just because the emotional depth it requires might very well bring him to tears again. 

So he squeezes that pale grip tight, the only solidarity he allows himself to muster, then lets go.

“I can’t.”

“Taylor —”

“No, really Elric, I _can’t.”_ He steps back; creates distance between them both physically and on a deeper level. “I wasn’t supposed to be a part of this — I wasn’t. I’m only being targeted because of you; because I’m your son. You know what the Elders called me? They called me an _‘unseen complication.’_ And up until right now it’s really bugged me. By all accounts I’ve not made anything _complicated _except for the lives of my friends. 

“But maybe I’m not done yet, you know? Maybe there’s more for me to do. Probably not, let’s be real, but I have to try. Nik— Nik is trying, and he’s never done that before. Kathy and Cade don’t have any stake in this but they keep trying because they’re good people. Cal wants to make this city safer for his brother and Vera… she could have run back to New York at any time but she hasn’t.

“I’m not gonna stand here and say I fully understand what’s going on. But that doesn’t mean I should cut and run. I think its because _I don’t know jack-shit_ that I can do the most good. Or, you know, at least try to.” 

He falters at the end; never one to finish strongly in situations like these. Would he like for Elric to stay, to _try _like the rest and do some good — of course. 

But any part of him left hesitant about his involvement is gone now. So he can thank the fae for that at the very least.

_Wow, is this what emotional growth feels like?_ That warm feeling in his chest spreading out to the tips of his fingers and toes, the pride in his actions, the sense of accomplishment however small?

Kristin is going to be _so _proud of him when she wakes up.

He doesn’t realize he’s waiting for Elric to respond until he inhales deeply. Looks Taylor over with those same eyes somehow changed. Like he’s really seeing him for the first time.

“You are brave — braver than most.”

“No I’m really not. _But _I’m scared enough to want to do something about it.”

“Very well. Whatever you wish to call it… the quality is an admirable one.”

“You should try it out sometime.”

“Perhaps you can show me how, one day.” _But not this day._

That’s it then. The arguing, the impassioned speeches, all of it and Elric still plans on hiding.

Fine. He’s done trying to make the man see reason. 

“I’m gonna get back to the show — my company’s worked hard for this and even though I’m not up there, I deserve the chance to see it through.”

Just as resigned as he had been in Lamrian, Elric closes himself off when he tucks his clasped hands in his sleeves. Beautiful embroidery becoming his wall against the world.

Against the terrible things about to happen.

“You will find no time has passed,” he says to Taylor’s surprise, “I had hoped you would return with me. The chance to say farewell to your companions was the least I could offer.”

Implications aside… “Thanks, I guess. I’ll see you around, Elric.”

“Nothing would bring me greater joy.”

He’s halfway down the hall when a definite _something _comes over him. Is there such a thing as _too much_ emotional growth? It tastes a little bit like he’s downed a shot of vinegar.

It makes him turn back; it knows the other man is still there — watching.

“You risked your life coming here — in person.”

Elric nods. “Yes.”

“All the things you’re staying out of the fight for; your people, Thalissa — if the bloodwraith showed up…”

“I knew the risk.”

“But it’s temporary, so that makes it okay.”

“What it does it make it a risk worth taking.”

“There it is then…” and Taylor almost can’t believe he’s saying this, but — “Come on, there’s a few empty seats in front of us. You can take one of those.”

Maybe he’s spent enough time in the fae’s presence now to understand and see every emotion he expresses. Small flickers and ticks in facial features — and that’s being generous.

Confusion. Contemplation. Understanding. Surprise. 

And more than a little heartbreak.

“The longer I stay here the greater the chance of discovery by the creature.”

“Yeah, well you’ve been here a pretty long time already. What’s an extra hour or two?”

“The difference between life and death.”

“A fair point. Counter— _you _wanted to spend time together, _Pop.”_ He pops his lips on the word. And funnily enough that seems to be what does the job.

There was no reason to doubt Elric’s truthfulness but he’s still relieved when they walk back into the theatre and the curtains are still drawn.

It would be helpful if someone turned around to see them; if they warned the others. But unfortunately (for Garrus) it’s a complete surprise when they greet his return… with company.

“Look who I found at the concession stand.” Taylor throws his arm around Elric’s shoulder and squeezes for the humor of it. Shit he probably should have asked if the man had a glamour. 

Well, no one’s staring or screaming yet, so probably a good sign.

The general aura of confusion is broken by Garrus who, impossibly enough, looks more pale than usual. Beside him Krom is halfway reaching out; as if to shield his unspoken crush from Elric’s unseen wrath.

“Hey there, Rook,” Nik’s look of _‘what the literal?’_ doesn’t stray from the fae’s ethereal glow, _“thought you were goin’ backstage.”_

_Because this was _his _fault?_ “Oh, I was. But then I got to thinking — it’s a friends _and family_ viewing so, you know, why not call my estranged father Elrond?”

“Elric.”

_Sigh._ “I know. It’s a joke.”

Elric nods. “Ah, I see.” _No he doesn’t, _but that’s not the point. Actually that he doesn’t is what makes it a little bit funnier.

But Taylor realizes quickly that he’s made a mistake in just assuming this would be okay. Garrus has never been quiet for this long and it makes everyone a little on edge. What happens when the man who always has something to say falls silent?

“You look well, Gallus.” 

Garrus flinches violently at the name; at Elric’s attempt to cut through the tension. “That isn’t my name and you know it.”

“It was once.”

“Not anymore.” Garrus looks to Krom in surprise. Its the most intimidating the gentle giant has ever sounded. Though rage literally flickers as flames in Ivy’s cursed eyes she manages to look at him with pride.

It seems Taylor isn’t the only one who’s grown as a person tonight, though. As the discomfort rises to an almost stifling level the Lord bows his head, speaks somber and its enough to make everyone take a breath.

“I wish not to intrude on your time, _Garrus,”_ Garrus who reaches absently for something to ground him and finds it in Krom’s hand clasping his, “only to take what precious moments my child allows me to possess.”

Way to push the blame on Taylor.

Taylor who struggles for something to say; an apology, a _get out of here,_ anything. “I didn’t — I mean I — Garrus if —”

He raises a hand and Taylor’s glad for the opportunity to bite his tongue. Finds relief in the fact that Garrus still manages a smile his way.

“You couldn’t know. And it doesn’t bother me, honestly —” — especially not when he has Krom’s hand to squeeze where the seats separate their thighs — “— as long as my old landlord respects his boundaries, and doesn’t have an ulterior motive.”

“I do not.”

“Pinky swear?”

Elric doesn’t understand and it shows; some kind of power move Garrus relishes in by grinning at the laughter that ripples through them and breaks the tension.

The room grows dark as the company prepares to resume. Taylor awkwardly (and if he’s honest, uncomfortably) ushers Elric into the seat parallel to his a row forward. Close enough to count as ‘spending time together’ while also glad to be a buffer between his fae father and Garrus.

Velvet curtains pull apart with a flourish. Just before the cast begins Taylor manages to lean back and give a real apology to his friend.

_“I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked first.”_ He whispers.

Garrus places a comforting hand on his shoulder. _“Really, darling, no big deal here.”_

_“Promise?”_

_“Pinky.”_

He can’t remember the last time he made any promises so important as _pinky promises._ But he and Garrus link little fingers and exchange small smiles just in time for Titania to begin her lines.

With a deep breath of courage and only after finding Nik’s hand in the dark he leans again, forward this time, and directs Elric’s attention to the performance.

_“Okay, so quick recap. There are four lovers, right, Helena who loves Demetrius, who loves Hermia, who loves Lysander, but the thing is…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone thought there was a point to my mentioning Taylor’s stage company performing _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ it was solely for this purpose. Thank you to everyone who has kept with me this far and I hope the final act doesn’t disappoint!


	18. Let Me Do You This Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fate intervenes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, death, decapitation, implied out-of-body experience

“You were there — you were watching us at Prytania Street.”

“In a way, yes and no.”

“It can’t be both. I _saw you there.”_

“Yes, I was witness to the events of which you speak. But no, I was not there as _you _were there; on the physical plane. I bear witness to all things. That is my purpose and my burden.”

“You could have _done something.”_

“You are mistaken, halfling child.”

“Bullshit. That’s—That’s bullshit. Its an excuse to justify doing nothing!”

“If that is what you choose to believe I cannot stop you, only try to sway your mind.”

“Well you won’t.”

“The world’s belief that I am capable of more than giving testimony is a false one. I cannot change the course of what is to be, no more than you can. I see every outcome, every possibility — every path from the moment it is built reaching out into oblivion. 

“Who walks those paths — who has the ability to forge them new or break the chain — that is up to the individual. Certain roads will always be taken, yes. But the forces making those decisions were here long before me and will exist long after I am gone.”

He’s angry. And because he’s angry he’s indignant — he doesn’t want to believe them. Not when they speak in the voice of a forgotten child or a lost lover or someone whose time has come yet they find themselves filled with only bitter regret.

Always with the same golden eyes.

The weight of his breath sends Taylor’s body into tremors of emotion. Things he knows all too well — despair, guilt, self-blame — and things he has no name for; might never have a name for in any human language.

They overwhelm him until they don’t. Until he can look at each and every face of The Fate and speak.

“I don’t remember. Why don’t I remember?”

It’s his voice, his tongue curling around the words formed on his lips. But they aren’t _his._ They’re just sort of pulled out of him like they were trapped deep in his belly on a string. 

Words that come not from the mind but from some place deeper. Those dying embers he thinks may have once been called his soul.

The Fate turns their wrinkled face away. 

He knows this emotion. _Shame._

_“Why don’t I remember?”_ he asks again. 

Doesn’t know where he is, or how he got here, or what it all means. But like hell he’s going to move or be moved without an answer.

“I thought it would be kinder.”

Their new voice wavers. A new face looks back at Taylor — creases in a frown that will settle into lines of age eventually, but not quite yet; thinner lips, yet hands still youthful. They look so much like his mother it hurts.

_Thought what would be kinder? What happened? Where is everyone? Where is _Nik?

All very important questions. All answers he first wants, then craves, then needs in order to remember how to breathe.

Instead he just whispers a weary _“please,”_ because they both know what it is he’s pleading for.

But The Fate is reluctant — that much is obvious. “I would rather you understand before I did.”

“Understand…?”

“That I am merely the storyteller. Not the book, not the author, just a voice reading from the pages.”

This again. Can they blame him for being skeptical? For thinking someone with a name like The Fate might have a say in the order of the universe, in who lives and who dies?

“If I tell you I believe you, will you give me back my memories?” _Will you explain? Will it all make sense?_

“Would you be lying to me, Taylor Hunter?”

“You’re The Fate — wouldn’t you know?” Then, met with only silence, he does the only thing that feels _right._ He just shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t — I don’t, okay? I’ve been asked to believe in a lot of impossible things lately, but this… this is more than that, and that makes it harder.”

Because if The Fate really has no say in the way things have been then that means they have no say in the way things end.

The Coven Elders do. 

His friends do.

He does.

But not someone who could make it all better.

And that’s _terrifying._

“So _I don’t know,”_ he repeats, “and that’s my final answer.” Not the right or wrong answer, but the final one.

He’s met with a chilling reality when The Fate reaches out their hand and he takes it and feels home. The Fate doesn’t just _look _like his mother; they are wearing her face. 

It’s a useless epiphany though. 

Because he remembers.

* * *

_What’s an extra hour or two?_

_The difference between life and death._

By the time he notices the familiar figure of The Fate standing just off stage left it’s too late.

The screams, the crackle and _POP _of a spotlight sending sparks showering down onto the stage, the heat and flames and smoke choking the breath out of him — those all came later.

First came the explosive _bang _of double doors opening at the back of the theatre. If there was ever an apt time for an actor to fumble their lines it was then. 

He still hated Antoni, the prick, but gave credit where credit was due — a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it beat in between stanzas and Oberon was right back in the depths of his monologue.

Second was the gust of wind that turned heads — Taylor’s included — to the draft coming through the gaping doorway. It reeked of revelry and jaegerbombs with just a _hint _of despair. 

Taylor was convinced that last bit was his imagination having a last-ditch effort to try and ruin his happiness. Stupid, stupid boy he was; turning back to the stage like that.

Third came _thunk. thunk. thunk._

He could recall, if only vaguely, the rehearsal where Daphne suggested imitating the Globe Theatre in London. She wanted to engage with the audience as Puck and the director loved it. 

Her last big entrance was from the back of the theatre, right — he’d forgotten.

_Thunk. thunk. thunk. _

Daphne came barreling down the sloping path — collided with the stage with wet noise. 

Or… her head did. 

And it rolled in classic horror-movie gothic to stare lifelessly at the audience. Eyes milky white, veins blackened and bulging under tissue paper skin.

What came next doesn’t matter. If the curtain caught fire before or after Theseus fainted from terror didn’t matter. 

The only thing that mattered was the wretchedly familiar grotesque hovering in the entryway — the shadow it cast stretching long, mangled limbs out towards them.

The bloodwraith let out a screeching howl that shattered glass, incited fire, sent the entire space into a pitch darkness only to glow and flicker with hungry flames.

_I’m sorry._ His first and only thought. 

Nothing else The Fate gave back to him mattered.

“Holy shit — am I dead?!”

Taylor uses the thought to grapple back onto the present and pull himself together. Doesn’t even think about whether or not he should be using that kind of language in front of a very _very _old supernatural being but okay maybe he’d been a little premature in the _‘nothing else’_ department. 

If he was dead that definitely mattered. Because if he was dead Nik was going to _kill him._

When The Fate readjusts themselves — a refined and more calm way of saying ‘recovers from whiplash’ — they reassure him with a small shake of the head, silvery wisps on a balding head shaking out to perfect and natural curls. “No, you are not dead.”

“Oh thank god,” he whistles low, but its the relief that catches him by surprise. And not just because he doesn’t have to worry about being chewed out by a surly Nighthunter.

He’s actually relieved to be alive. Or at least not dead. One of those things he wouldn’t normally perturb the semantics over but given everything that’s happened it only seems right.

“Am I alive?”

“In a way.”

“That’s a yes or no question. Please let that be a yes or no question.”

It takes Taylor a moment (his brain is catching up as quick as it can, yeesh) but when it becomes clear The Fate, powerful ethereal being witness to everything until the end of time, is amusing themselves with his reactions he tries his best not to give any.

He fails, of course, but he tried his best.

“Yes, halfling child, you are alive.”

“And —” _Nik? Elric? Vera? Cal-Kathy-Cadence? Garrus-Krom-Ivy?_ “— everyone else?”

“Is there one for whom your concern is greatest?” It sounds almost clinical; doesn’t help that they now sound eerily similar to his hormone therapy physician.

Maybe they hoped Taylor would have to think about it. Maybe they wanted to see what makes him tick.

Too bad. “I’m not picking which of my friends I care about the most, if that’s what weird all-knowing trope you’re going for.”

“Not even your father is placed above them?”

“I barely know the guy. That answer it for you?”

The Fate gives a “hmm” and a nod. “Forgive me, I have never had such luxuries.”

“Family, friends?”

“Those as well. I see the bonds of the material made; thousands, millions in the spaces between heartbeats. But I do not feel them. I wish that I could.”

It rings wrong in his bones. Makes his blood curdle in his veins. “If you’re trying to justify preying on my fears to _learn emotions,_ I’d say stop.”

“Is there a threat to be made?”

“No.” He’s not stupid — but he’s not just going to stand there and take it, either. “You didn’t answer my question. Are my friends — _all of them_ — alive too?”

He can tell The Fate hesitates as one last test of wills. Still it doesn’t stop him from clapping a hand over his mouth when they finally nod.

“Thank god…”

They’d thought it would be safe. That they had time—however brief—to try and make the most of things; time together, the city in all her glory. 

Taylor doesn’t realize they’ve been walking together, a simple man and Fate, until he stops and looks out of one of the large windows lining the hallway. 

Outside is beautiful. It’s a lacking word but the only one that comes to mind. It’s the kind of sunset that people write entire poems and songs about because they can’t think of a simple one-word description either. So it’ll do.

He drinks it in — the vibrant sunset that reaches long tendril fingers of pinks and oranges across the sky and continues on and on and on into an endless horizon. Bright enough to illuminate dust motes hovering practically immobile in the still air around him. Even his heavy and awestruck breathing doesn’t disturb them. 

Like he isn’t even there.

And it occurs to him like an afterthought that if he left this place to commune with that sherbet sky he’d never find the end. There’s a peace in that.

He could ask the obvious; _where are we, how did we get here, what does it all mean,_ but instead he focuses on the things he _does _know rather than what he doesn’t. “You brought us here.” 

“Yes.”

And he hadn’t planned it at all; the trap The Fate has so willingly fallen into. But there it is.

“That means you intervened.” He turns away from the world beyond only because he has to. Catches their ever-changing face in the sunset’s light. “I thought you couldn’t intervene.”

When they finally answer the words are chosen with care; careful not to reveal too much, careful not to make promises unable to be kept. “I did not change the course of what is to come; that is beyond me. But it is not beyond you, and so the lines blur. If you could be guided, or given more time, or protected from a death thought previously inevitable, then perhaps you could enact that change with your newfound advantages.”

His mouth twists ruefully. “You’re telling me you found a loophole in destiny?”

“Of a sort.”

“And you choose _now _to do it? That’s…” For once in his life Taylor thinks before he speaks; to his benefit. “Unless this isn’t the first time you’ve done it.”

The Fate looks at him with the eyes of a child again; a disturbingly profound wisdom looking him over as if in a new light. “There are very few places in the puzzle of time where I may fit.”

“So all that stuff you said about being an observer — what you’re saying is that’s a load of crap.”

“Would I have told you then what little I could do, would you have believed my interference so small?”

They’ve got a point. “No.”

“Then you see why these revelations take time.”

Maybe he does. That doesn’t change the truth, though. Doesn’t change the thoughts racing through his mind; thoughts of the dozens, hundreds of things that have happened that could have been changed in some little way. Changed had they had more time, or if they’d known more. 

Or if he _hadn’t _been protected. 

_If Nik hadn’t been in the graveyard, Taylor would be dead. He was there, and at the bar, because…_

“You hired Nik to protect me. You were the one on the other end of the phone line.”

“Yes.”

“Did it make a difference? No—No it couldn’t have. You said you couldn’t change it. You —”

“All that is meant to unfold still will. If not as swiftly as the witches had hoped.”

“So all you did was prolong the inevitable.”

_“All I did?”_ his question played back to him in a voice rusted with time, incredulity on The Fate’s new leathery features, “You think so narrowly. What have you changed, what have you incited?”

“The Elders are still —”

_“What. have. you. done.”_

“I —” Is it any wonder he falters under the intensity of that stare; the weight of their words bearing down on him heavier than anything he’s tried to carry before? 

Fine. What _has _he done? 

He’s hurt Garrus by bringing Elric to the show. 

_He’s brought Garrus and Krom closer._

He’s put Vera in danger. 

_But given her a chance to reconcile with her mother._

He’s the reason Cal was cast out from his pack. 

_And the reason Donny is still alive._

Stop it, Taylor wants to say, because there’s no way that annoying voice in his head contradicting everything he’s thinking is him. It’s them — they’re in his mind.

But he’s heard dozens of voices from dozens of their lips; none of them have sounded like _him._

And only his voice is ringing between his ears.

“If I’d died in the cemetery that night — would any of those things have happened? Be honest.”

“I see all outcomes; the realms in which they did happen and those where they did not.”

“Okay, so —”

“But because of _you,_ Taylor Hunter, they _did._ And that cannot be undone.”

Taylor reels at the very thought of it. Talk about _daring to disturb the universe._ But all those things — they’re speaking of the past, of the present. 

_What about the future?_

“Was it enough, though?” _Was it enough to make a difference? Enough to save them? Enough to win?_

Instead of answering with words The Fate reaches up, out. Doesn’t let up even though Taylor recoils (for good reason) at the weight of _permanence _that hangs around them in an unseen aura. According to The Fate themselves there are versions of this story where he dies; is already dead.

And knowing that doesn’t scare him nearly as much as being touched by someone who has seen it happen.

“Those who seek to change destiny always fail,” — something so morbid and hopeless shouldn’t sound so reassuring — “because it will always lie out of their reach. They never understand how to bring it closer. Now _you _do.”

The warmth of the sunset beyond prickles the back of Taylor’s neck. But even basking in the glow as they have been The Fate’s fingers are cold as ice. 

Cold with the weight of the sorrows they’ve seen.

Wherever they are stretches out infinitely on either side of them. He hasn’t seen another soul this entire time. Knows somewhere deep inside himself that no matter how many halls he sees, no matter how many doors he opens, they reside here together. Alone.

So why then does he whisper? Who the hell knows.

“If you’ve seen all the terrible ways this could end… why do it? Why try?”

“Because,” they smile and suddenly Taylor sees why every other part of them is cold; to compensate, “I have hope.”

_How, how can they have hope when they know what’s coming?_ “Hope for what?”

“Hope that you will prove me wrong.” _You can change what is to come. _

“Talk about your unrealistic expectations.” _How?_

“It has been done before — however rare.” _You already know how._

But he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t.

He — 

* * *

He watches Cal with his arm over Vera’s shoulder — holding her close, pressing his mouth into her hair more a gesture of comfort than a kiss. To remind her the warmth of another body is close. That she isn’t alone.

A bright light flashes in front of his eyes, blinds him. Taylor tries to pull back but the EMT squeezes his shoulder and keeps him in place. “Not yet, bud, just try and follow the light okay?”

It doesn’t really make sense to keep staring at the thing that makes it harder to see but he does what he’s told. Follows the pen light left to right and up to down because that’s what they need of him right now.

“Your friends said you took a pretty hard hit.” He can feel the gloved hand on the back of his head feeling around for a lump, a cut, blood — anything. 

Definitely more than the nothing he gets that’s for sure.

“Do you remember anything like that?”

No, he doesn’t. He only remembers silvery curls and an insistent understanding that he’s capable of more than he thinks. But those thoughts aren’t his.

It’s with reluctance that the EMT lets him jump from the back of the ambulance with the closest thing to a clear bill of health.

“Rook!”

Thank god he hears Nik only when there isn’t a stethoscope on his chest because surely his heart stops beating. 

Taylor turns, doesn’t have the time to brace himself before he’s inhaling leather. Isn’t smothered by it at all — in fact it helps calm him more than expected.

Then Nik’s looking him over — touching the back of his head and holding up his arms; looking for cuts and bruises and any sign that he’s less than one hundred-percent okay. “Did you get checked out? Why the hell would they let you go? If they’d seen the way your head bounced off that concrete wall they’d be thinkin’ differently. Fuckin’ hell, they…” Just like the EMT he feels nothing, though. But this time Taylor isn’t let off the hook so easily.

“What the hell? There ain’t even a bump.”

“I hit my head?” he asks; realizes it’s the wrong thing to say when Nik’s eyes widen.

“You don’t remember? Shit — we’re gettin’ you to the hospital.”

“I don’t need a hospital.”

“I beg to differ!”

“If you’d —” Taylor actually has to smack the flurry of Nik’s concerned hands away, “— just stop for a sec’? Please!”

Even in the chaos of grief and seemingly fruitless attempts to restore order Taylor is _loud._ Manages to get more than a few heads turned his way — some that look between him and Nik in rising suspicion. He takes the man’s hand and pulls him off to the side before any of it becomes a _thing._

They find the one police car without the overhead lights flashing. Away from the crowd swarming, from people who secretly wished they could be paid to learn what happened and grieve for it. Despite being entirely removed from the situation they are moths; the cruisers that bathe them in reds and blues are their flame.

Nik wastes no time. “You’re starting to scare me Taylor,” and he believes it with or without Nik using his name, “if somethin’ happened to you, somethin’ medical, we gotta —”

_“Nik,”_ he insists again, “stop talking.” Cups his hands along a chiseled jaw and brings the man down to kiss him like that’ll explain everything. In a perfect world, maybe.

But even annoying as he’s being right now Taylor can’t hold it against him. He cares — in his own weird way sure — but he does.

They part for air but he allows strong hands to keep him close.

“I only just got back,” he mumbles almost breathlessly, “I don’t need you jumping down my throat.”

“Wait—what?” 

“I —”

There’s a tickle on his forehead as Nik’s brow furrows. “No I heard ya. But you didn’ — we were here the whole —” Lucky for them both when, somewhere in the middle of those half-formed explanations and racing thoughts, he remembers that he’s Nik Ryder; Nighthunter.

“Got back from _where?”_

“Not here.”

“Yes, _here.”_

_“Nik.” _

Taylor would like to believe he relents because of trust, but knows the far more likely explanation is exhaustion. But he does and that’s what matters. “Okay Rook, okay. Your turn to call the shots.” 

“First we need to get everyone together. I saw Vera and Cal, but…”

“Kathy an’ Cade were still givin’ statements last I checked. Iv’, Krom, and Garrus hightailed it before the cops showed up. Wait—you’re really sayin’ you don’t remember any of this?”

“Stay focused. Where’s Elric?”

“With them. He was out cold, hurt bad from the looks of it.”

Taylor’s heart straight-up stops beating. “Did the wraith —?”

“No Rook, no he, uh, he took a fallin’ rigging for you. Pushed you right outta the way and that’s how you hit your head. I really don’t like —”

_“Later._ We can’t go back to the _Shift.”_

“Well there we agree.”

“There’s my place, but —”

“No, nowhere connected to any of us. The Elders could’a hexed the place.”

_“Suggestions,_ maybe?”

“Well damn Rook — not like I’ve got a map of secret warded places I can just pull outta my ass—_actually…”_ Nik changes his tune so fast Taylor gets whiplash. But he knows the thoughtful look in those dark eyes well enough by now that he dares to have just a little bit of hope.

_Why try?_

_Because I have hope._

By the time he’s pulled out of his brief recollection of The Fate, Nik is pulling him by the hand back into the crowd. They spot the beacon of Cadence’s towering head over everyone else and find the others still recuperating on the curb where he stands guard.

Cal spots Taylor and immediately tries to stand — but he’s leaning far too much to the right to be moving so fast. Katherine catches him, eases him back down with admonishing words.

“What did the EMT _just say?”_

“Yeah yeah, I ain’t a cub Kathy.”

“Then pay attention next time — to what they’re saying, not to their asses.”

Vera reaches for Taylor like a source of comfort. He takes her hand and squeezes; feels the warmth of her through blue medical latex in a way her usual silk doesn’t allow. Wordlessly she holds up a long scrap of familiar fabric as explanation.

Whatever Cadence had planned on saying, it catches on his tongue to be swallowed back down. Something makes his face turn away with a crinkle in his nose.

“No offense Taylor, but you smell like mold on vellum.”

“Huh?” Cal sniffs the air and comes to a similar conclusion. “Reminds me of the shed Kristof keeps his pelts in — like… dust and mothballs.”

“Uh…” _what the hell does somebody _say _to that,_ “I’m sorry?”

“Just thought you ought to know.”

“Actually — speakin’ of all that research you do, Smith,” everyone looks at Nik like he’s grown a second head, but no one can match Cadence’s bewilderment; since that has less than nothing to do with the attack that’s left them reeling.

“What about it?”

“Any chance you know if the Saint Louis has still got that, uh, preservation sigil still in the stones?”

“Sure. That whole block of Chartres does.”

Katherine’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Ryder, what are you thinking?” But he ignores her carelessly.

“Includin’ your office?”

“Yes but — _Oh.”_ Epiphany crosses his face and makes his glasses slide down to the tip of his nose. 

And though it may be just as annoying to be on the outs of something Nik, Cadence, and even Katherine with her slow nod of understanding seem to know that the rest don’t — there’s a comfort to it. Like they’re all back in the _Shift _shotgunning ideas on a chalkboard and not scrambling for a place to hide.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” the way Katherine says it though — it’s like a self-directed insult, “why didn’t I think of that?”

“Think we’ll all fit?” asks Nik.

Cadence gives everyone a calculating look, seemingly taking measurements. “I don’t see why not, so long as you don’t mind a bit of clutter.”

Kathy doesn’t even bother covering her snort, the derisive _“Ha!”_ that earns her something like the vampire version of a pout. She remains unfazed. “That’s putting it a little more than _lightly…”_

“It’s not _that _bad. You’re making me out to be a hoarder.”

“Let’s just hope no one’s claustrophobic.”

_“Kathy!”_

* * *

Admittedly Taylor doesn’t know a lot about vampires besides the basics; immortal, super fast, super strong, blood-is-life. But there’s more, isn’t there? There has to be.

For example — werewolves are pack animals. He can guess that vampires are less so. So what fills the void? 

Because from what he’s seeing before him… they’re _nesting creatures. _

This _is _a nest, right? Please someone say this is a nest, that this is normal behavior. That somewhere else in the city Isadora de la Rosa is just chilling in a giant pile of _stuff _like some sultry dragoness and Cadence is just following some sort of undead instinct.

Otherwise this guy needs help. Like — _Hoarders_-level help. 

Ryder’s reaction does nothing to ease his discomfort; giving an impressed nod as his eyes sweep the room; the piles… _and piles… and piles…_

“You’ve cleaned up,” he moves an old filing box with little ceremony to rustle himself up a place to sit; apparently its every butt for itself here, “and is that _two _walls I can see?”

There are two seats not actively serving as storage and Katherine beelines for it. Cal gets there first with some semblance of victory — though it’s short-lived.

“You’re in my spot.”

“Grow up. First come first serve.”

She repeats herself in an actual growl. “You’re _in my spot, Lowell.”_

Arms crossed over his chest, he snorts a derisive “I don’t see your name on it,” only to fumble for purchase when she grabs the chair-back with both hands and spins it around.

Her name actually _is _written on the back. And in very large, blocky permanent marker. 

She doesn’t need to tell him a third time. Settles in like it didn’t even happen. Out of everyone gathered, Cadence included, she’s the only one who looks like she really belongs.

“Three guesses why that is.” She says to Nik. It doesn’t take the man long to connect the dots. 

“I’d’ve given some money to catch a glimpse of spit-shined Raines in this disaster.”

_“Enough!”_ The vampire groans; finishes clearing up the last of what appears to be an outdoor patio table for the rest of them to prop against. “Unless by some miracle my—admittedly disorganized—attempt at scouring centuries’ worth of documentation in my so-far fruitless pursuit of an identity is the key to vanquishing the threat at hand. 

“If so then by all means, continue on!”

It doesn’t help that the awkward silence is broken only when a towering stack of loose papers slides passed the tipping point and collapses somewhere unseen.

“Fuck.” 

He accepts his defeat and takes up the chair beside Kathy with a surprising amount of dignity.

But his tirade served more than just a single purpose. It reminds Taylor of why they had to find somewhere to regroup, why it had been necessary in the first place.

_You already know how,_ The Fate had said. And with a surety that had blurred the boundaries of whatever reality they had been in while talking outside of time and space. 

Cadence’s mess isn’t the answer.

But someone _not-Taylor_ in the room just might be.

“Vera…”

_You already know._ And the first thing he sees when he comes back to himself is Vera crying on the curb. That’s not a coincidence. In fact he feels a sharp, almost icy clarity when his train of thought switches tracks. 

When he remembers the last time she cried and knows — _just knows_ — that everything going forward isn’t random chance. It’s all meant to be.

Wordlessly they clasp hands. If before they were only doing this together and for Kristin, the same can’t be said now. 

Taylor begins with a soft “I’m sorry,” because what he’s going to ask her is hard but there’s no way around it; he tries to be kind because she deserves that much at the very least, “but I’m gonna need you to tell me… tell _us,_ I guess… what exactly you meant when you said you, uh, _recognized the bloodwraith.”_

Where’s a falling stack of papers when you need one?

Directly following another attack isn’t the _best _time to ask something that heavy. Everyone’s thinking it, but either lacks the guts or has enough brains not to speak it aloud.

The longer they wait the less time they have. If their minutes in the hourglass aren’t borrowed already.

Taylor can’t imagine the amount of courage it takes for her to share. She’d already been one sneeze away from _“no no never mind, I don’t wanna bother you with it, let it go please; for me”_ back in the apartment. He recalls a brief flash of relief when they were interrupted. Though that didn’t last long given the news.

He’s there, you know, if she wants a hand to hold. Hesitates that hand over her shoulder as he watches the woman close in on herself… and lets it fall.

By the time she’s ready Cadence has ducked out and returns with a tray of water glasses and steaming mugs of fragrant teas. Three sleeves of soda crackers once abandoned are now their equivalent of a replenishing snack after a long journey.

All of it a little too mundane for the conversation at hand.

Vera gives herself a few shaky breaths — and begins.

“You ever been to one’a those big family reunions; the kind where you don’t know more than half’a the people showin’ up but it’s a birthday or a funeral or the like and you don’t really have a say in the matter?”

Literal crickets. 

Even when she looks at Cal for backup he shakes his head and offers a shrug as an apology. “The Pack may be big but we’re tight. It’s impossible _not _to know someone, even if it ain’t a face but a scent.”

“But we can imagine.” Katherine makes a _‘continue’_ gesture without bothering to mask the haste. “Keep going.”

Vera does.

“You’re wrong there, Kathy. No’ne who ain’t born a Reimonenq can really get what happens when you get more than a dozen’a us in the same room. All with the same blood in our veins but any opportunity to marry out the family, to change the name with somethin’ more bindin’ than just a court order — they take it. 

“Last one I went to was _ma Mémé’s_ funeral. Nawlins funerals, you know how they are —” only this time Taylor’s the sole sore thumb but no one stops to explain, “— and since she ran the Reimonenq Clan everyone who once carried the name or could have done was bound by duty to attend.”

Wistful memory clouds her eyes for a long moment. Whatever memory it is can’t be a happy one, not by the tick in her brow. “Met my uncle for the first time there. I didn’ even know Momma _had _any siblings — and here come up walkin’ two. They could’a been any random strangers on the street but they were huggin’ me and tellin’ me about seein’ me as a baby and…”

Katherine makes a not-so-subtle noise and shifts in her chair until it squeaks loud enough for Cal to flinch. It’s her chair, bears her name. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Before she can say anything Cadence tactfully intervenes. 

“So sorry about that; the chair drowned Kathy out. I could be wrong — but I _think _she was about to ask the relevance of this story and the wraith.”

Vera nods with a startling lack of apology. “If I could skirt around it I would. But every way I’ve thought about… about how I felt when I looked _it _in the eyes? This is the only way I can make it make sense.”

“It’s okay Vee,” says Taylor, “say what you have to.” And if he doesn’t mind her taking her time because it gets him a better chance of reading her _inside,_ of understanding not just the words on her lips but the ones on her soul, he definitely isn’t going to mention it.

“I could _see _that they were my blood. Hell they were the spittin’ image of Ton—of Momma before she took over _ma Mémé’s_ operations. The shady… _smoky _kind. But I didn’t know ‘em. I was five weeks away from my move to New York—I didn’t _want _to know ‘em.”

“Did they have the…?” She looks at Ryder sharply, watches him mime his hands without rhyme or reason. Her nostrils flare in anger.

“No. Turns out the _Reimonenq Curse_ is a picky lit’le thing; picks the first born — or the only born, in my case. I got why she didn’t keep in contact when I found that out.

“I didn’ know _why _it bugged me s’a much until later. ‘Cause I just couldn’t give rhyme or reason to _how I could see so much’a myself in stranger’s eyes.”_

A hush falls over the group. Within it — an understanding. No longer with the need to ask Vera to tie her story together because she’s actually a lot more intuitive than even Taylor previously gave her credit for.

And now those tears of hers — always justified, always — they’re more than that. They’re understood.

Vera had looked into the eyes of the bloodwraith. What she had seen was far worse than simple familiarity.

She’d seen a part of herself in the rotting void of its skull. Recognized something hereditary in scraps of rotting flesh stuck in the gaps between its mouthful of fanged teeth.

_And she’s still fucking standing, she’s still sane? _

Not that there was any competition but Vera Reimonenq was definitely just crowned the strongest of them all in a landslide victory.

She gives them each individual looks. As if daring any of them to try and play Devil’s advocate. But why would they? You don’t fake something that soul-crushingly awful.

“There’s more.”

Cal kicks back on the floor with a groan. “Any chance there _isn’t?”_ He’s the only one who could get away with it though. 

“I wish that were the case. I’d been tryin’ to find the right time to bring it up — turns out it just needed to be brought up for me.” 

_I’m sorry,_ says way Taylor pulls her in for a one-armed hug. 

_It ain’t your fault,_ replies the last weary quirk of her lips.

“I ain’t the only one.”

“Tonya,” supplies Cadence, and Vera’s wobbling bottom lip breaks all their hearts in unison.

“Yeah—Yeah Momma she… she felt it too. I could see it in her eyes. She won’t spare it a thought but I don’ believe in coincidences anymore. She an’ I both feelin’ the way we did, then that thing’s touch takin’ away her Curse —”

_“Mary Mother of Christ!”_

The vampire stands so fast his chair goes flying into a stack of boxes — lucky for them all whatever contents are heavy enough to stay standing. 

At first Katherine looks worried beside him, though it dulls quickly into exasperation. “Folks and faes I give you the Drama King…”

“Not the bloody time.” The look in those ruby eyes is almost manic — just like they had been when Cade had tried infodumping on them at the _Shift._ Only this might be slightly more relevant — hopefully.

“Care to share?” Cal drawls.

Cadence pays him no mind; focuses only on Vera and gets her attention in turn. There’s almost _anticipation _in the way he whispers, “You figured it out, didn’t you?”

“Well I wasn’t sure — not until now. You knew him?”

“I had the misfortune.”

“And you were… _around _when the Coven retaliated.”

“Like I said,” he wipes the lenses of his glasses with such convenient timing he could only be avoiding meeting her eyes, “I had the misfortune.”

It isn’t long after that they realize no one else is even close to catching up to them. A silent back and forth emerges Cadence as the lucky soul burdened with explanation.

“We’ve been so focused on the _what _of the bloodwraith,” there’s no possible way he knows what stack to dig through, it has to be a diversion to remove himself from the heart of the matter; doesn’t stop him from nudging Nik aside and rifling through an open filing cabinet, “what it is, what it seeks, what it can _do.”_

Nik grumbles at Taylor’s side. “And that ain’t important?”

“No no — it is. But it… it gave us tunnel vision. Made us docile; we stopped asking questions. _Aha —”_

Cadence pries free a packet; the contents of which Taylor can’t see even if he squints. 

But the text must not matter because he focuses instead on a carefully cut newspaper article attached to the front. The same old paper as his news spread on the war — ink the same faded black.

He can barely look at it, though. Offers it to Kathy’s awaiting hand. “The fire was too great not to make the paper. Carlo personally ensured the cause of the blaze was covered up but no one could keep the deaths quiet. The city only knew three young women perished — not that they were the Garden Coven’s newest blooded witches. And because that fact needed to be concealed at all costs… there were no consequences for him to face.”

“For _who _to face?” Taylor’s afraid to ask but _someone’s _gotta do it. 

Vera’s voice cracks when she answers.

“My ancestor — Derek Reimonenq. The Bloody Hand.”

“And the tortured soul the Coven used to bind the bloodwraith to this world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was easy to follow when it came to the flashbacks and the scene with The Fate. I knew from the start I wanted The Fate to be much more ambiguous than in the book, but had a little difficulty translating it to solely a description. Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	19. No Sympathy for the Bloodwraith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cadence recounts one of the worst events in the Council’s history as the bloodwraith’s motives are brought to light. Taylor’s new empathy turns into both a helpful gift and a terrible burden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** language, violence, blood, gore, descriptions of murder/burning alive, mentions of war (brief) 
> 
> **note:** There was a slight inaccuracy in Chapter 2 that has been corrected: _Saint Louis Cemetery_ to _Lafayette Cemetery._

_New Orleans, 1921_   


“If you think the entire Garden Coven unwilling to march on you without hesitation, then you’re far more a fool than you’ve already proved yourself to be.”

The Nighthunter rounds on him with stake in hand. Even as unofficial allies his intent is clear: _I will use this._

But Cadence doesn’t step back because he fears the weapon. He fears the man using it.

Has seen that wild look in his eyes elsewhere — though never in a human. It is the look that watches his every step, that hoards the limp limbs of their meal closer, that seeks only to gorge on thick veins and will not be sated until red ichor spills from their lips they are so full with it.

In a reversal of fortune it is the human who looks at the vampire with the gouging claws of bloodthirst and madness. 

Any creature of sound mind would fear Reimonenq now.

“They can’t touch me,” the sneering reply, “those damn Accords keep y’all from actin’ as a faction!”

“Those same Accords demand the same of you!”

“It’s different for me an’ you know it, Smith.”

_“No_—honestly I don’t. You’re just as much a part of this community as any of us. You’re beholden to the Accords just as we are!” But the thing he’s still struggling to grasp, the thing that leaves him gaping even as Derek Reimonenq resumes shoving his things into a ratty sack, is far worse.

“Even with the legality aside — you just _murdered _three young women in cold blood.”

If any vestiges of warmth remained in his once-alive body they are dashed in the moment the man’s cruel laughter reaches his ears.

“Trust me when I say there weren’t nothin’ _cold _about it.”

A blind fury consumes him. Sends him rushing at the man with preternatural speed to pin him to the wall; the same grasp capable of turning concrete to powder wrapped around the mortal’s neck.

“You think this is _funny?!”_

“What it is, damn bleedin’ hearted fool, is_ justice!”_

Derek shoves him back; only succeeds when the vampire is too stunned to speak or hold his ground. “You storm in here spoutin’ all yer high-horse _shit _about them Accords but you think I’m the only one what broke ‘em? You think those devil-whisperin’ freaks didn’ bend they’re own rules just the same?

“Those girls were _unnatural._ Even for they’re kind. I been at this all my life Smith — I know how to suss out the ones who ain’t got no hope a’goin’ anywhere but _bad.”_

“You killed them before they even had a chance. You’re no seer Reimonenq, you can’t possibly think you’re justified on a _hunch!”_

Derek’s upper lip curls. Cadence is almost surprised he doesn’t glimpse fangs.

“A Nighthunter’s job ain’t easy an’ it ain’t nice an’ it definitely ain’t _simple._ I already compromised every-damn-thing I believe in when I joined in on ya damn _Council._ But Come Hell an’ high waters if I stop makin’ this city safe for me an’ mine.”

Like a creature in her own right there comes a small hollow noise at the door. Low and center — the _tap-tapping_ of child’s knuckles. The men break their brawl to watch — to wait. 

The knuckles _tap-tap_ again. Firmer this time. 

Derek wars with himself for only a moment — opens the door and smooths the kind eyes of a father over those of the beast before. 

Cadence knows it isn’t his spectacles that cause him to see a familiar child; not the honey-eyed daughter of Reimonenq but the wild ginger mane of Meredith LaPointe’s youngest. Her face frozen in terror as it will always be; carved behind his eyelids and in his soul.

Even in a town like New Orleans some hauntings have nothing to do with the supernatural. Some are personal.

The little girl stands with her nightshirt bunched in impossibly tiny fists. Wide eyes shining at the sight of her father before realizing he isn’t alone. When her lower lip begins to wobble the vampire realizes his mistake and averts his unnatural ruby gaze.

“You’re supposed to be in bed baby girl,” croons the same man who had burned three girls mere hours ago. 

He picks his daughter up and tucks her in close. Cadence wonders if she can smell burned flesh and hair on his old army coat. “Where’s that momma’a yours…” Doesn’t look back to his guest even as he closes the door behind him, ventures deeper into his slumbering home.

Now alone the towering man begs for an answer only he can give — the same thing he had thought with the sunset a looming enemy at his back on the steps of Reimonenq’s domain.

_Why is he here? _

He has no stake in the Nighthunter’s life. In fact they’ve run afoul of one another more than most. For a man apparently so dedicated to upholding the tenets of the original Nighthunters he sure found himself in debt to the creatures he should so despise often enough. They’d met that way — another payment to Cadence’s three year debt to Carlo in strongarming the money that was promised. 

And fucks sakes… there’s nothing redeemable about a man who would hold his daughter with hands still stained with the soot of a witch pyre.

The Council _will _come for him. There’s even a likelihood the vampire himself would be one of the men tasked with bringing him for his trial. 

Maybe he just has to accept that there isn’t a reason for confronting Reimonenq alone. 

Maybe he just wants to understand. 

Monster to monster.

“What foul…?” He catches another whiff of burned flesh and a shudder rolls through him. He wonders if it should remind him of the battlefield. Still so strong even with thin walls between them — like Reimonenq hadn’t even left the room.

_Curious. _

Out of the corner of his eye he sees the lumped and dark shadow of the hunter’s sack. Ready to cut and run even with a family awaiting his return on the city’s outskirts. 

Cadence doesn’t have a family — or if he does he doesn’t know where to find them. Are they waiting for him? Are they just as ignorant to the truth?

All his unanswered questions and here the other man is almost _eager _to abandon it all. Jealousy is an ugly thing.

When he reaches for the bag it’s because he’s angry; because he wants to delay Derek as much as possible. Not just to face the consequences of his actions but so he knows what the fuck he’s leaving behind. Has to dial down his strength lest he send a myriad of Nighthunter’s essentials hurtling through the thin drywall. 

Stakes clatter to the floor. A medieval crossbow lands arm-down and snaps the archaic metal off like shattering glass. Bare essentials of fabric tumble out and reveal the prize he had wrapped within with care and greed both; what remaining skin was peeled from muscle tissue and bone from the flames that had consumed them starts to flake off and settle on scuffed wooden floors.

One cooked finger snaps off and rolls under the nearby bed. The rest are curled up and in like spiders after they die of starvation.

He’s caused his fair share of bloodshed but _this— _

_Trophies…_

Cadence’s tears gather and the world goes blurry at his eyes. From rage, from disgust, from incredulity…

He rips his glasses off and shatters them in his fist.

* * *

To the Elders of the Garden District Coven, Carlo de la Rosa was at the center of the city’s vampire community. If they weren’t of his blood they owed him in one form of another — Cadence is proof of that. 

He was old, powerful, and connected. He had to go.

To the malevolent specter of Derek Reimonenq, Carlo was a threat. Not just as the leader of the vampires of New Orleans but on a personal level as well. In the months following his death Reimonenq’s wife and daughter inherited more than his legacy — they inherited his debts too.

He was as remorseless as he was undead. He had to go.

The Elders witnessed firsthand the rapid rise to power of Denna Ostrowski; a shapeshifter rumored to have had over a hundred forms under her pelt. To the mundane world she was new money investing in the rich history of Louisiana. And money opens many doors — even among the supernatural. 

She had her hands steeped in the cauldrons of both worlds. She had to go.

Only Denna came to town long after The Bloody Hand had been dealt with — near forgotten.

That didn’t stop her from learning as much as she could about the history of the Council; from allies to enemies. Learning where they lived, where they died, and where they had hidden every rotten putrid trophy hand. 

It was a part of the past best left forgotten yet that didn’t stop Denna from destroying them all the way down to the bone. And for that her days were numbered.

Though they didn’t know it the Elders and their ghoulish pet saw eye-to-eye when it came time to level that gaze on Tonya Reimonenq. They called her _Lady Smoke_ because those who ran afoul of her always disappeared without a trace. 

_Poof _— gone like smoke.

She never _asked _for her gift; the Reimonenq Curse. But she took it and she used it without shame or guilt. Made a show of keeping her touch under expensive wrappings but everyone knew the truth. 

She _liked _having such power; control over who lived and who died. And despite being of Derek Reimonenq’s decaying flesh and molded blood, Tonya had turned herself into a target — made herself a creature more than she ever was a human being.

“I was the one who brought him in front of the Council,” Cadence says without regret, without remorse; “I kept him from going into hiding. If I hadn’t gone to him that night the Garden Coven may very well have never found him.”

Cal frowns. “I thought you said he couldn’t be accused and punished. Which I still can’t make a lick’a sense of.”

“In the eyes of the Accords both sides were at fault — for different things, but equally guilty of knowing the laws and consciously choosing to break them.”

“What did the Coven _do?”_

The vampire shifts in discomfort. 

“The girls Derek burned weren’t born into the families that made up their ranks at the time. The Elders back then had plans to blood them fully — sort of like an initiation you can’t back out of — but they were brought into the city from outside covens before it was done.”

“To put it plain they brought enemies onto Quarter soil,” explains Katherine with a tired rub of her eye.

Cal throws his glance back to Taylor and Vera and matches their confusion. 

“I’m missin’ somethin’. ‘Cause no offense but I can’t see a guy like Elric agreeing to put kids to death over bein’ somewhere they shouldn’t’ve.”

“You’re right — Elric knew the girls were smuggled into town. The whole Council did, actually. Given the circumstances they agreed to turn a blind eye.” When he’s met with a silence that screams for him to keep going Cadence does, though the reluctance is clear on his expression.

“Listen — I never met them personally. I only know what I do from rumor and that’s putting it lightly. But one person heard from another who heard from God-knows-who-else that the girls all shared the same power—could do the same thing in the craft, you know?

“It was said they could _remove free will._ I don’t know how, or if it was wild speculation or the truth watered down. Even I laughed when the story reached far down enough to my rung on the ladder. Nothing of the natural world — be it magic or sensation or psychic connection — can truly _take away_ all resistance to command. Even my kind, while connected to our Makers on a deep and intimate level, can resist their influence if we do so with all of our being.

“None of this mattered though. The Coven may have concealed their nature but everyone could put two and two together.”

“No one thought they were gonna try somethin’ shifty?” asks Nik. Cadence shakes his head.

“One of the Elders had a natural gift of his own; he could sever the witch from their ability to practice the craft. It was clear that was their plan — that the city didn’t have to worry. They just couldn’t do so until _after _being blooded into the Coven. 

“I think most of us just felt sorry for them.” Doesn’t stare _at _the carpet underfoot but _through _it; both in the room with them and some place he thought he had left far behind. “I did. All around the country young men had been sent off to war and returned home empty husks, if they returned at all. There was a sort of cultural agreement that didn’t need words: children and their innocence was worth protecting.”

Kathy’s hand hovers over his before making a decision, offering contact to ground the man to the present. But the smile he gives her is hollow. The memories still haunt him — maybe they always will.

“Derek Reimonenq didn’t agree,” he continues to everyone’s surprise, “not that anyone expected him to. Neither did the Bayou Alpha but the war didn’t even give her back a body to bury, so she fell in with the rest. Everyone figured he would air his grievances and follow through as he usually did… bottle in hand.

“It’s the only time I can remember that the Council tried to find a flaw in their own laws. They wanted to convict him — everyone was demanding justice. But rather than two trials and needless punishment on the side of the Coven the only solution they could all agree on was a clean slate.”

“Which didn’t sit well with the witches,” Vera rests her hand on her racing heart like that will help — it doesn’t, “so they Cursed him. And all the Reimonenq blood ‘longside.”

Cadence nods tight-lipped; has said more than he thought he would have to and more than he wished to if his tension is anything to go by. 

“Makes sense, now.”

Nik’s fingertips are warm on Taylor’s scalp. They card through his hair as if to remind them both they are here; that it’s all come down to this.

“Those Elder bastards were targetin’ power in the city but somehow usin’ Derek’s spirit gave it an agenda. Carlo for the past, Denna for revenge on his stuff — can’t say I blame it for hatin’ Smoke but —”

“And how exactly did _I_ piss off _‘The Bloody Hand?’”_ Taylor asks in bewilderment. Nothing about the casual way the man shrugs reassures him.

“Dunno — you were convenient?”

“And we’re back to that now.”

“Sometimes a spade is a spade is a spade,” his mouth twists with deep thought, “though now we know why it wasn’t houndin’ on us the second you were outside a ward. They gave it a hit list but it chose the order.”

No one responds — what is there to say? Sure it’s satisfying to finally _know,_ to _understand._

But does it change anything?

_It has to. Otherwise The Fate wouldn’t have led him on this; the altered path._

“This is good — this is a really good thing.”

The incredulity and judgment that bears down on Katherine isn’t personal — she knows that. More than that she doesn’t care. Not with the wry look she’s sending Ryder’s way. “Damn,” she laughs dryly, “it might actually be the only time in all this weird crap that things might work in our favor.”

“How d’ya mean?”

“You said it yourself; a spade’s a spade. Think about it, Nik — finally this is just a job like any other. Just creatures following their nature.”

A look of understanding comes over his weary features. “So maybe it’s time we follow ours, you mean.”

Like she’s reading his mind Vera speaks up where Taylor still struggles to connect the dots; “For the class, guys?”

Kathy’s smile is a rare thing. Rare and unnerving.

“We do what Nighthunters do best; _we hunt.”_

* * *

Even with everything he’s seen and endured the sight of rusted cemetery gates still form knots in his belly; dread and memory all tied up with the knowledge that at the end of the day he’s just as vulnerable here and now as he was that first night.

And you know what doesn’t help? Being in the Garden District again; that doesn’t help.

Being so close to their enemies — those literally plotting to kill them with more than one attempt under their witchy robes — that doesn’t help.

But it must be done. _“It’s a risk we’ll have to take,”_ Katherine had said while hoisting a rusted toolbox from its shelf in Cadence’s office, _“since it’s proven already it can attack us anywhere — wards or no.”_

_“There aren’t any protection measures we can take?”_ Vera had asked; though they were all sure that _if_ there was an answer they would have found it by now.

_“Find a god and pray.”_

That the cemetery is largely untouched is a miracle. Not for fear of ghosts and the scary stories tour guides like Tilly tell but for the fact that tourists usually just don’t give a damn.

Then again this _is_ the closest cemetery to the Coven. That has something to do with it no doubt.

Cadence leads them through the dark and winding paths — Cal bringing up the rear. _“No flashlights,”_ the vampire had insisted, _“the moment we trespass is the moment the mundane authorities become just as much a threat as the witches.”_

Lucky they have a vampire and a werewolf on their team then. Precision hunters pretty much known for their ability to see at night.

They keep close-knit ranks but let’s be honest; they’re about as subtle as the Scooby Gang would be in this scenario.

_A joke he will _not _be saying within earshot of Cal if Taylor values his life._

Though the vampire insists—almost _too _much—that he hasn’t been to the Reimonenq crypt since Derek was put there almost a century ago he sure knows his way easy enough.

“Are you sure you’re okay with us doing this; vandalizing your family crypt?” Taylor asks Vera, because this just feels awkward especially with her _here._ And if she says stop you better know they will be stopping.

But nope; it’s all good. “I’m only frustrated I can’t get us in myself.”

They come to a stop — abruptly, like jostled dominoes — in front of an old stone grave.

Any other day Taylor would have walked right by it; dismissed it for another piece of city history made illegible from erosion over time. But through the greenish muck and years of wear, maybe because he knows what he’s looking for, it’s there.

REIMONENQ  
_“Mourn not the dead, but those burdened to continue living.”_

His heart sinks at the inscription beneath Vera’s family name — chances a glance her way, ready to offer what little comfort he can.

Her eyes scream of hatred but he can feel beneath the surface. All that anger stemming from a place of hurt, of loss; of regret. Hatred at the bones they hope to find within and regret for every life that could have been spared in the aftermath of him.

Cadence motions for Cal to help him strongarm the front slab.

“Wait,” says Vera through the stones in her throat and the tears in her eyes she refuses to shed, “gimme a second.”

Katherine holds her breath — thinks better of pointing out that they may not have a second to spare. They know; Vera knows. 

But she also deserves this.

She removes her left glove while approaching the crypt. They step back, give her a wide berth and not just for her sake.

Fingers stretched as far and forward as they’ll go Vera lays her palm on the surface. Pushes with a fruitless effort but it probably isn’t the physical barrier she’s forcing back. At least that’s not what Taylor feels in her soul.

“When I was a lit’le girl Momma told me we didn’ have the luxury of choosin’ whether or not to be killers. That day I vowed to myself to be the first — to keep the Touch from ever takin’ a life so long as I held it.

“I was fifteen when she tricked me into usin’ it on a man — staged it like I was savin’ her life by taking another. And I’ll never forgive her for it.”

Taylor feels his heart begin to crumble, then crash into a deep dark sea in chunks as tears roll down her cheeks.

“But she proved something to me that day —” she continues, “— she proved she was right. That so long as we had the Touch we would be killers whether we wanted to or not. She may have tried to make me a hero but no one who can do what we do could ever be one. 

“But here—lookin’ at this grave, knowin’ what I know and all that The Bloody Hand did? I don’t feel guilty anymore. I finally realize that I really never had a choice.

“It was always gonna be in my nature.”

Cal’s knuckles crack hollow in the silent cemetery. Cade averts his ruby eyes, swipes his tongue over the hint of a fang.

If anyone here can understand her, it’s them.

“That’s what makes him so evil,” Vera tugs on her glove with jerking frustration; and not for the first time turns her back on the name REIMONENQ, “he had a choice an’ he chose to kill. And I ain’t gonna forget that — no matter how _‘tortured’_ his soul is supposed to be.

“Those Elders ain’t in the right in what they’ve done but he wouldn’t have been their weapon had he not chosen to do great evil first.”

Not a rallying cry or solemn eulogy — but her intent is clear.

_No sympathy for the bloodwraith. _

_No sympathy for Derek Reimonenq._

Ryder insists on proceeding with caution—still a statement Taylor’s trying to wrap his head around to be honest—and earns Katherine’s grumbled agreement that they should at least check for remnants of the Elders’ visit. 

Cal spots a couple of markings drawn in chalk by the base that set teeth and fangs on edge but ultimately Kathy concludes they’re nothing more than lay-hexes; the witch equivalent of spitting on someone and cursing them to burn in Hell. A bit ominous but not meant to guard the abandoned tomb.

Which, frankly, leaves Taylor more than a little unsettled.

“If they saw no need to enchant it, does that mean there’s nothing inside we can use?” 

Nik shakes his head and steps back, allows the two creatures among them to really _give in_ to that nature of theirs and pry the weathered granite from its seal.

“First thing any hunter does when dealin’ with the hereafter is t’learn about the life of the haunting dead. We got the life story and we got how he died —”

“Step two is consecrate whatever bones can be found.” Katherine finishes.

A _groan _of resistance cuts off with a loud _THUD,_ the noise bouncing from crypt to crypt definitely more than loud enough to awaken the dead. Nice timing to start regretting not bringing Ivy along.

Cade props the front plate on the side of the structure, waves his hand at the irritating dust and sand set off from their force. 

_It must be nice not to have to breathe,_ Taylor would say — if he wasn’t hacking his lungs out and praying there isn’t any powdered body on his tongue.

When it settles and they can properly peer inside — the good news is that aren’t any corpses that might make him lose his nerve. One more fainting spell and Taylor might just have to live in shame in the backwoods of the Bayou.

The bad news, though, is also that there aren’t any corpses; rather a large black hole stretching into a void. Darker than the night around them, practically made of _nothing._

The vampire sighs and pushes up his glasses. “It’s a small stairwell,” then looking back to Vera, “I know you aren’t to blame in the least but… there’s a _reason _no one has a basement in Louisiana.” Judging by the look she throws his way it’s better that she takes the high road and doesn’t comment.

“I can’t smell any water rot,” Cal sniffs the air again and the face he makes might as well curl the ends of his hair, “but there’s definitely dead things below.”

_“Wow,_ dead things in a crypt, who would’a guessed?”

“Hey Ryder?”

“Yeah Kujo?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

There’s only enough space for them to go one at a time; and even _that _is being generous. Taylor can’t help but try to imagine the dignified Elder Daniels in her power-suit crawling into this muck — or Elder Vion hobbling through like a bag of bones. 

Kathy volunteers Cadence to go first — an act the vampire looks like he objects to strongly. “Tall people aren’t really made for small —”

But it isn’t his height the huntress is concerned over; a revelation spurned by how she shoves him through the passage—crawlspace, really—and holds her breath as if waiting for something to happen.

Nothing does. “The inside isn’t bespelled. You can come out now if you want.”

If Cade could turn his head he would no doubt be glaring wildly. “Why bother, I’m already inside!” He seethes but takes cautious steps into the tomb, then into the earth.

Vera goes next, and of her own volition.

“Anyone else worried about the amount of oxygen down there?” And it’s such a clear opening for Nik to take a shot at the werewolf but Cal _does _have a point — while also looking a little green in the face.

So he and Katherine stay up top to guard the rather obvious and gaping hole in what should be a sealed grave. And for the sake of conserving breathing room, can’t forget that.

Nik’s hand is warm, solid as it coaxes him at his lower back. Only a few steps in he feels the drop of the descent. Waits until what little light from outside is obscured by the bodyguard at his back before he begins the journey down.

Down into the not-so-final not-quite-at-rest place of Derek Reimonenq.

* * *

Cal was right; there is a body down here.

But—and he’s just spitballing here really—he’s like… a little pretty-damn-sure it isn’t the guy who’s been dead for 98 years.

Ninety five, ninety four percent certain.

As he finishes igniting the last of the half-burned candle circle Cadence pockets his lighter and stands — doesn’t even have to hunch over. It had _felt _like they were walking for an hour in the pitch black but maybe he wasn’t that far off. 

It’s not a tomb like anyone buried would have a tomb; more a room made sturdy with brick and mortar to do one purpose — and not even for forever. The candles have to be a new fixture courtesy of the Coven Elders and whatever hellish ritual they performed. Even the ground beneath them still holds traces of their visit; looks like Elder Daniels got her heel stuck in some as-yet unpacked dirt.

Derek Reimonenq’s body is probably supposed to be on the waist-height stone slab in the middle. Only it isn’t. 

But _someone’s _is.

Ryder’s hand ghosts over yellow chalk marks on the walls. He pulls back a fingertip of the powder residue and gives it a little sniff; instantly regrets it with a recoil.

“Sulfur,” and he smears it back on the brick feeling desperately unclean.

Cadence joins Vera in looking up to where something large catches the reflection of the flames. He’s just tall enough to reach and brush the surface with a touch. “Looks like a quartz geode… I think I’ve read somewhere that halite can be cast to ward away weathering.”

“Explains why this place wasn’t swallowed up in Katrina,” agrees Nik.

There’s a long moment of silence before Taylor just can’t take it anymore.

“Is no one else gonna mention the dead corpse?”

Cadence snorts. “As opposed to the living one?”

_Not what he meant._

But as the rest of the room’s oddities had been deduced the only logical progression was to the young woman laid to rest in a grave that isn’t hers. Maybe wasn’t supposed to be.

That she hasn’t shown any signs of decay isn’t even the strangest thing. No, that would be the pile of bleached-white bones serving as her funeral bed. Definitely more than what one human body should be made up of — but who says it’s human?

The almost medical distance with which Nik studies the long gash across her throat—not scabbed over but not bleeding, either, simply _open_—has Taylor looking away in discomfort.

While Vera may not have been initially as shocked as he, though, she keeps her distance beside him. “She’s so young…”

“Eighteen, maybe a tad less,” Cadence shrugs off the way they stare at him, “I tried out medicine a ways back, I think I can date a body.”

“Then how long has she been dead?”

“That’s the misleading part — but I think we have the halite ward to thank for that. Context included—I’d say she died the same night as Carlo de la Rosa.”

Vera sucks in a breath. “It killed her, too?”

“No, she doesn’t look like the other bodies.” Nik grunts and stands, wipes dirt from his palms and grabs one of the bones from under the girl’s knee to study it closely. “Conjuring the wraith — pulling Reimonenq’s spirit from the Veil, that’s some heavy necromancy, the kind you have to have in your blood. It could be one of the Elders but I’m gonna go out on a limb and say she’s our born Necromancer.”

Why is it that with everything he’s seen Taylor still has a hard time looking into her face, soft and so very still, and imagining her bringing that much evil into the world?

Ryder uses the bone to drag a wide circle around the dais in the dirt; follows the path just inside the candles and forces the other three back against the walls. “The Elders stood in a triangle — see the concentration of steps — and she did the summoning over the altar. When they were done… she wasn’t of any use to them and and had to go.”

“But she was one of their own,” Taylor protests, “they keep talking about how they’re trying to protect their Coven — she had to have been one of them right?”

It’s a heavy thought. Makes the air in the room feel a little thinner. Cal was right there isn’t enough for them down here.

“Come Hell and High Waters,” says Cade; and he probably means well but those words make him feel sick to his stomach now — some of that _ends justifying the means_ bullshit. 

“A sacrifice of one for the survival of the many. I wonder if they told her… that what she was doing was the right thing.”

“The right — _they murdered her._ There’s no way that’s right.”

“You’re questioning their morality _now?”_

Taylor falters. He has a point.

There’s just so much grief building up inside his chest he feels like his lungs might burst out of him. A terrible loss; losing himself, losing faith in something, losing trust and truth and…

_And where the hell is this coming from?_

_I can’t breathe._ Clutching his hand to his chest, heart seconds away from giving out, that familiar burn of breathing in too hard—too much. “I can’t breathe.”

Before he can collapse Vera helps ease him down to his knees, Nik suddenly at his side hands hovering — unsure of what to do, how to help, but filled with the desperate need to do _something _because feeling useless is a thundercloud gathering overhead.

“Rook—Rook breathe. I — what’s wrong? Can you talk? Talk to me Taylor, please —”

“Give him some space, Ryder.”

“Do you not see him _having a panic attack?”_

He gathers enough energy to rasp out only once; “Hey—_huff_—Nik—_huff_—_backthehelloff!”_

And because he can’t say it again he just waves Vera away with heavy slaps of his hands. He doesn’t mean to hurt her. Only to get his point across. 

The breathing room they give helps a little. Not enough. Doesn’t stop the feelings he’s feeling or the confusion about those feelings. 

They wait in silence while his panic subsides. Maybe it wouldn’t take so long if he understood what had caused it; but he’s met with nothing but patience and a whole lot of concern on Nik’s end.

When Taylor reaches out with a shaky hand it’s immediately grabbed; his entire being tethered to that one act. Nik squeezes first, he squeezes back.

His gaze drifts over the leather-clad shoulder to the body on the stone slab and… and he understands.

“I’m feeling _her.”_ The aching grief twisting in his gut like a rusty knife, the purposelessness, the betrayal. “It—_she_—is everywhere in here. She’s suffocating.”

“She’s dead, Rook.”

“I mean her emotions—her soul. She wants to be known. She wants to be grieved.”

“So grieve her,” Cadence says, “however you can, you must. If you’re feeling that strong of an empathic connection there must be a reason why. It could tell us something we don’t know—something crucial.”

Taylor hopes to see some sort of confident support when he looks to Nik for help — but the _worry _is staggering. That makes it better, somehow; genuine.

“You don’t have to do anythin’ you don’t want,” his voice is quiet; hiding the scratch of emotion in his throat where his Adam’s apple bobs.

If only it were that simple. 

On shaky legs he stands, makes his way to the altar where Cadence gives him a wide berth and waves for the others to do the same. Nik looks ready to stand by his side no matter what happens. He will, too. But he shakes his head, whispers “it’s okay,” and lets their touch linger until he’s too far to reach.

There’s no manual on this kinda crap — hopefully he doesn’t need one. He doesn’t _think _he does.

No… he doesn’t _feel _like he does. Which is apparently different now; a thing to worry about later.

Taylor inhales and brushes a trembling touch along the soft curve of her copper cheek. 

_“You swore a sacred oath to your Coven in blood, dear girl.”_

Elder Vion’s voice rasps in his ear. Makes Taylor want to recoil out of a bygone terror. He’s half a step back when he remembers Nik is there and the Elder is not. And stands still.

_“No one else would have you Cassiopeia. We took you in, gave you our protection.”_

_“We gave you a family — a home.”_

Then an unfamiliar voice among them; young and trusting and tired—so very tired, dragged out of her bed in the middle of the night.

_“Of course, Elder Millet, a-and I’m grateful! Please, please…”_

_“All of these things without expectation of repayment. Because our kind must stand together — must straddle the worlds of both dark and light and know balance in them.”_

_“You have been cursed, darling girl. But today we will turn that curse into a blessing.”_

_“But you made me promise —”_

Then the feeling changes — grows old and damp and determined to do good by those who took care of her, by those who loved her. 

_The bones of a persecuted witch. Of three. The last three to fall victim to The Bloody Hand and the ones to call him forth from the hereafter. _

_They bind him in torment, in hellfire unseen._

_The sight of them, knowledge that she could be one of them, makes her skin crawl._

_Elder Daniels watches ever-present at her back as Elder Vion finishes the rite of conjuring; sprinkles the last of the dry spell over the bones. The mandrake powder tickles her nose. She holds her breath and prays not to sneeze._

_The ochre within stains the bones her favorite shade of orange; the burned hue of a Bayou sunset. But combined with the flakes of iridescent mica that catch in the candlelight — the spell takes hold of the bones and claims them for their use. Leaves them a bright, almost bleached white as the powders are absorbed into the long-gone marrow._

_Cassiopeia looks to her left for Elder Millet’s familiar motherly smile. It gives her calm and hope — reminds her of all the other fostered witches they are acting in faith for tonight._

_This is what she was born for. This is why she was abandoned; because the Garden Coven was_ meant _to find her. _

_She’s_ meant _to do this; use her curse. This is how she’s going to repay them for all they’ve done for her._

_“Cassiopeia, sweetheart,” Elder Millet doesn’t move—can’t move—from her spot in the triquetra; coaxes her forward still with a nod of her chin, “whenever you’re ready.”_

_A hasty nod; then she takes one final moment to steel herself and her nerves. _

She’s meant for this.

_The sulfur powder itches at her palms but Cassie resists the urge to scratch. Spreads her fingers wide and hears a pop in her thumbs as she reaches over and above the ritual bones._

_On the other side of the altar comes the_ thud. thud. thud _of Elder Vion’s walking staff on the ground a this feet. The candle flames around them flicker — almost to death. _

_Then comes the slow and throated chanting of Vion’s native tongue. The flames begin to grow._

_The young witch buries that last shred of doubt way deep inside and trusts her protectors._

“Claw and blood, claw and bone.  
Bloodied flesh, endless stone…”

_A whispered wind overcomes them. Fills the room warm near her toes and chilly to the touch._

_Around the crypt it circles round and round — and grows._

“Soar with the zephyr, shriek with the crow.  
Life renewed I now bestow…”

_She can’t quite tell if the shaking in her hands is the growing itch, her nerves, or the power of the spell. Nothing worth the reason to stop. _

“My darkest will with blackened vein  
Unto this rotted soul I chain.”

_“Again!” Elder Daniels commands. A tone that takes none but obedience._

“Claw and blood, claw and bone.  
Bloodied flesh, endless stone.  
Soar with the zephyr, shriek with the crow.  
Life renewed I now bestow.  
My darkest will with blackened vein  
Unto this rotted soul I chain!”

_“Again!”_

_“I—I’m trying!”_

_“Try harder! Millet!”_

_“Cassiopeia you can’t break the chant. You can do it, I know you can!”_

_The whirlwind threatens to catch her voice and steal it from her lungs. Rattles the bones that stay together because they cannot imagine being apart — even in death. Hands stained with the sulfur’s ire and Cassie squeezes her eyes shut to keep it from getting in her eyes._

“Claw and blood! Claw and bone!  
Bloodied flesh! Endless stone!”

_“It’s working! Jean—the knife!”_

_“You’re doing so good Cassie—we’re almost there!”_

“My darkest will with blackened vein!  
Unto this rotted soul I chain!”

Taylor chokes on his own air; can feel the icy bite of the blade dragged across his throat. Sharp—so sharp it’s barely a pinprick but the wound left in its wake spills warm and wet down his front into his clothes soaking the ground taken in by the dirt and given a _home _here, _below,_ in this awful place.

Ichor of the innocent to bind and control.

Before he can fall backwards Nik is there; familiar and solid and so so steady against the violent shaking that overcomes him.

He can still feel her— forces everything inside him to will himself not to see what happened next. Knows what was born from her spell, her devotion to the Elders, and her sacrifice.

_Cassiopeia._

“She trusted them,” the words hang thick and dry on Taylor’s tongue, “she trusted them and they told her she was doing something good… she felt like she _owed them.”_

“And repaid that debt with her life…” Vera looks away; suddenly can’t stand to look at her.

Nik helps him back on his feet, brushes a hand through his hair and he leans into the warmth of it. Feels so _cold _now that the hot sting of Cassiopeia’s anguish is gone from him. Pulled out as if by a rusted hook embedded in his gut.

“Was it Reimonenq that did this to her?” asks Cade, who drags his finger along the curling edges of her wound.

“No, no… Elder Daniels, I think, was the one who sacrificed her.”

Nik frowns. “Why would you sacrifice the one doin’ the damn ritual?”

“The power in a ritual is beheld by the caster, obviously. With her death the entire thing _should _have been rendered null. But we all know that not to be the case.”

A strange look comes over the vampire’s expression for a moment; lips pursed thinly. He doesn’t look up from the body as he waves towards Vera. “Can you come here a moment? Take your glove off.”

“What? No!”

“Relax, you won’t be Touching me. I need you to Touch the witch’s hand.”

She looks between them all, Cassie’s body included, as if hoping one of them will speak up. “I won’t be Touchin’ anyone because I won’t do it. It’s too risky, especially here all… all cramped.”

_“Please.”_

Vera pleads at him silently. Taylor can feel her panic icy and crisp at the back of his throat. So he asks; “What do you think will happen?”

“If I’m correct,” whether he steps away from the altar and simply gestures, giving Vera space, is for her sake or his own is a mystery, “then nothing will happen at all.”

That it’s a risk he’s willing to take on behalf of Vera—that he isn’t the one doing the Touching and is all the more insistent anyway—is worrisome. But he’s their friend; they’re all in this together.

That—and the fact that if Katherine were down here she’d already be tugging Vera and her cursed hand forward without hesitation.

Curiosity, survival; whichever wins out it doesn’t matter. Not that it keeps the unfortunate inheritor of her family name from doing so slowly. As if trying to talk herself out of agreeing up until the last second.

“Which hand?”

“Either one will do,” then when her fingertips are a hair’s breadth away— “I seem to recall Derek wasn’t _picky.”_

Taylor wonders—quietly, in his head, and very much to himself—when the last time Vera actually _touched _another human was. Was there some sort of coming-of-age trigger for the curse? Or could she have been putting all the other toddlers on the playground at risk should she have decided to pull off her gloves and play tag?

_Too long ago, _the obvious answer. Obvious when Vera covers Cassiopeia’s hand first in fingertips — then her entire palm.

They wait. Nothing happens.

She shakes off her wrist—like this is something she’s at fault for—and tries again. Pushes this time enough to jostle the poor young sacrifice. 

Again, nothing.

There’s a collective sigh of relief. All eyes on Cadence for answers, explanations, anything?

Nope. He just nods, as distantly academic as ever.

“So what does this mean?” Nik finally asks.

The last time he started rolling up his sleeves, Taylor witnessed Cadence’s transformation into some kind of merciless brute; a monster. Is it any wonder the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when he sees it again?

“It means I’m going to need something that can cut through bone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a while it looked like I wasn’t going to be able to bring in Cassiopeia at all, but luckily she managed to come to my aid when I needed her most! Hopefully she’s proven that way for Taylor and the others… 
> 
> Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	20. The Guests of Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locals, tourists, and travelers around the world over take to the streets of New Orleans for the biggest celebration of the year. The Council comes together at the Beau-Keyes House for their annual Mardi Gras party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** alcohol, descriptions of bruising
> 
> **note:** the tag eventual smut has been removed from this series — it just didn’t come up naturally in the story flow

_March 5th. Mardi Gras._   


Behind him Nik announces himself with a loud and pointed cough. Taylor doesn’t acknowledge it but he enters anyway, keeps his distance.

Kristin’s vitals beep softly on the monitors beside the bed. Both fill the space between them and somehow make it that much wider.

“Don’t go sayin’ goodbyes.” Advice from a man who sounds like he’s said far too many — or maybe too few.

But he appreciates the gesture anyway. “I’m not. Actually I was just promising to make it up to her; missing _Mardi Gras_ I mean.”

“I swear some people treat this party like a whole damn religion.”

Taylor throws a little grin back Nik’s way. 

“We’ve been planning this for years. When she wakes up she’s gonna be _so_ mad she missed it.”

When there’s no answer he fully turns and catches the look on Nik’s face; the sharp cuts of him softer, the crinkles in his eyes smoothed away.

There are people wait their whole lives for someone to look at them like that. Walls down and gates open and any other locked barrier metaphor he can think of. Honest and unguarded and…

And the sheer fact that it doesn’t vanish the moment Nik realizes he’s been caught means a lot of things that neither of them can talk about right now because it’ll feel too much like the goodbyes they just agreed not to say.

“What?” he asks; doesn’t miss the tiniest spark in the man’s eyes at how breathless he sounds. _“What?”_

“You realize you said _‘when?’_”

Yeah, he did.

“Sorry, I —” shaking his head, Taylor stands, “— are they all finished up downstairs?”

“They’re finishin’ the papers now, but yeah they wanted me to get ya.”

“Probably shouldn’t keep them waiting then.”

“Yeah, prob’ly.”

He said he wasn’t going to say goodbye so he doesn’t — not out loud. Hopefully that thing about coma patients hearing the world around them applies for sensations, too, because squeezing her hand before they take off is the next best thing.

It doesn’t come as a surprise that Vera and Tonya are already in an argument when they arrive. 

Even without the powers her Curse granted her, Lady Smoke smooths out a fresh pair of gloves along her upper arm. Must be wearing a spare of Vera’s since they probably didn’t plan on matching. 

“I will not be looked down upon, Vera.”

“You’re takin’ it too seriously. Dr. Ramsey barely let you sign yourself out and that’s sayin’ something. Just stay in the damn chair Momma!”

Maybe at her full strength Tonya could have fought off the one-handed grip her daughter uses to keep her seated in the hospital wheelchair, but she certainly can’t looking like she’s a hop and a skip from unconsciousness.

But she’s a fighter. She tries.

Vera throws them a pleading look on approach. Probably why Ryder doesn’t shy away from hard heavy pats to the shoulder of the most powerful mobster in the city.

_Former most powerful?_ He doesn’t know anymore — is sure that same uncertainty is the reason Momma Reimonenq is so adamant to leave on her own two feet.

But Ryder wants to savor it for just a little longer. “We all signed and ready to get movin’? Heard from Kathy on the way down — they’re almost there.”

Vera nods. Literally goes over Tonya’s head with the conclusion that ignoring her is better for everyone. 

“The car is pullin’ around,” and with a twinge of worry in her brow, “anybody heard from Cal?”

No answer _is_ an answer. She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. 

_“We_ should’a went with him, swung by the hospital after.”

If Tonya takes offense to sounding less important than the werewolf she doesn’t say it. She does fall quiet, though.

“He’s a big wolf, he’ll be fine.”

Getting a firm grasp on the handles of the chair Ryder swings Tonya around — with no lack of glee at her shouted protest — and starts pushing her out to the hospital curb.

But Taylor shares the same concern. Doesn’t write Vera off as she tucks herself against his side while they follow behind.

“He’s not wrong, but Cal isn’t _alone,_ remember?”

She snorts. “Nothin’ against him personally but I don’t think sendin’ _Cadence _counts. I dunno if you noticed, Tay, but the wolves and vampires don’t exactly get along.”

_“Really?_ I had _no_ idea.”

“Don’t you gimme that lip. What if we just made it worse on him?”

And he feels for her, he does. Knows her concern is coming from a place of care and, if Taylor’s reading the vibes she’s putting out right, empathy for an ‘odd one out’ like herself.

So he reminds her, “You came here for your mom and lived to tell the tale. Don’t sell Cal so short.”

“Yeah… I guess.”

“We need Kristof for this to work.”

“An’ I know that! Just wonderin’ if it wouldn’t’ve been easier to tackle demons who weren’t our own.”

“Hey,” he wipes away a nonexistent tear in mock-offense, “speak for yourself. I gave mine the cliffnotes of Shakespeare.”

They’re both _pretty sure_ the hospital wheelchairs aren’t things to be rented out, but neither of them have the guts to argue with Nik as he gives a shout of frustrated victory at maneuvering the folded frame into the trunk of their ride. 

He slams the lid closed with more force than necessary; muttering to himself as they pile into the sleek black SUV.

“Here’s the address.” Ryder grunts, offers the driver a scrap of paper once part of Cade’s notes. The man doesn’t take it without shooting Lady Smoke query for approval first. 

Her focus is ardent on something—maybe nothing, maybe anything but the indignity she feels—out the window but with the barest nod the engine rumbles to life, begins the agonizing process of navigating through the police-issued barricades for the forthcoming parade.

_If this works, holy shit._

_If it doesn’t…_

He takes Nik’s hand in his and squeezes tight.

* * *

You’d think after living there for a few centuries the supernatural community — the immortal lives of the fair folk specifically — would have had some kind of effect on the culture of New Orleans. 

On the contrary; the vibrant blend of ancestry that made the Big Easy so prominent had come out stronger, taken what was apparently a rather somber tradition-bred people and made them savor the beauty of a life that was not guaranteed to be forever.

Which helps give a little bit of contextual understanding to just how _amazing _the Beauregard-Keyes House looks?

In the entryway he catches glimpse of more than a few fae, the same citizens of Lamrian he saw carrying candle-lanterns and humming a solemn hymn of mourning mere days ago, flitting this way and that for final touches.

Lights without flame or fuel dance in soft orbs across the ceilings; colliding into one another with bright flashes of the traditional _Mardi Gras_ purple, gold, and green. Beads hang on decorated furniture and lay spread out on tables for the taking. 

There’s an entire wall of face masks ahead; ranging from just the eyes to full-on faces painted by delicate and skilled hands. No two masks are exactly the same, so bursting with personality they’re practically alive.

They pass a doorway where a young fae waves their hands exuberantly only for bright violet ivy to grow and flourish around the molding; still sparkling of morning dew that shouldn’t be there for hours let alone indoors. 

If they weren’t setting an elaborate trap for a skeletal hellspawn by literally handing it everyone it wants to kill on a decorative golden platter it would be the kind of party to bring up every time someone mentions a good time.

Taylor catches a familiar laugh off to the right of the front parlor and, after a tug to Ryder’s arm and a jerk of the head, leaves him and Vera to finish explaining the machinations of said elaborate plan to Lady Smoke. Delves further and through a doorway that dusts golden glitter like falling snow. Before he can brush it off his shoulders it fades into nothing, because apparently even elves know glitter is an infectious disease.

Garrus is accustomed to working his magic at a larger bar top and it shows — doesn’t mean the magical mixologist isn’t working some serious moves on the antique bar hosting a freshly-stocked wall of selections behind him.

Ivy continues to laugh unabashedly at Krom and now Taylor can see why. His stony face lips and eyes squeezed shut and puckered up in some form of resistance. 

And if that wasn’t a silly enough sight on its own the flurry of tiny fizzing dragonflies that erupt from his tusked maw when he burps definitely is. 

They lift up into the air as little bubbles, popping and crackling like the top of a freshly poured cola. Collide with one another in midair to make miniature fireworks that leaves Krom staring in in horror and Ivy clapping exuberantly with cheers of _“Encore, encore~!”_ while Garrus bows.

“Thank you, thank you,” and more sincerely to Krom, “Your never-ending patience is something I will never be worthy of, darling.”

Krom who gulps down a nearby glass of water, voice wavering. “I’m happy to—to try things out. Just nothing that flies out of me next time, please?”

“I’ll try, but I make no promises.”

And they all know what _that’s _code for. Of course he promises. He cares too much about the softest Stone Troll to do anything else. But points for keeping up the bravado.

Taylor doesn’t get the chance to speak before he catches Katherine’s eye where she sits with a tumbler of something honey-colored and smelling strongly of the last vestiges of a bonfire at dawn. The huntress downs her liquor like a shot and slides off her stool.

“Ryder?”

He nods to the doorway through which he’d come and gets a passing pat on the back as his only thanks. Better than nothing.

By the time he takes up her place Garrus already has a replacement soda with a speared cherry resting on the rim sliding his way.

And Taylor’s happy to take the offer; only he stops just shy of bubbling carbonation touching his lips.

“What’s wrong with it?”

_“Excusez-moi?”_ Garrus clasps a pale hand to his chest. “Are you implying I’ve somehow _tampered _with your beverage, sir?”

“Obviously.”

The elven man wilts dramatically and with a number of expressive hand gestures. Braces himself first against the bar then the shelves behind him while lamenting over the pain of accusation like his neck is on the line.

He’s just the usual Garrus, silly with a touch of sass. And judging by some of the looks his kindred throw in their direction they ought to try and be a bit more serious given the circumstances but no—no they won’t.

Everyone could use a genuine laugh right now. Garrus is doing more for them all than he knows.

The soft “ah-hem” of a cleared throat drags Taylor’s focus off and aside — where a familiar wave of gossamer hair lingers inside a doorway.

He may not be in a wheelchair or sport stitches or wrappings but Elric is still recovering from the attack at the theatre. Each step a little less graceful and fluid, his eyes alight only because he’s looking at Taylor.

Krom stops Garrus mid-word with an outstretched hand.

The fae lord reaches out a touch that Taylor doesn’t shy away from. The hairs on his arms stand up but that’s only because Elric exudes an aura of power even when weakened.

“May I borrow my son, Garrus?”

And though there’s considerably less mirth in the bartender’s voice when he answers— “that’s something you should be asking him” —it isn’t the same cold dismissal as before.

Elric clearly means to, but Taylor nods before he can.

The only place they can find to be alone is a closed-off office space. Deemed not worth the decoration the doors are drawn closed but remain unlocked.

A wave of Elric’s hand brings a pale pink fire whispering to life in the hearth across the room. Fills the room with a warmth Taylor can’t quite put his finger on and casts both their faces in undulating shadows.

“Thanks for pulling this off so quickly,” Taylor goes first only because he’s had it on the brain ever since the end of their call. “Guess some stereotypes aren’t just myth huh?”

“Pardon?”

“Elves and parties.”

“I do not understand.”

A sigh. Of course he doesn’t. “Nevermind — just… thanks.”

He reaches out a hand for Elric to grasp, or shake, or whatever odd greeting the fae may have he’s yet to learn. 

And Elric accepts — goes one step further. Before Taylor knows what’s happening he’s in a crushing embrace, can feel the man’s sharp features on the top of his head with arms pinned at his sides.

Hugging has never been his forte. Purely a body dysphoria thing — he can’t _not _be conscious of the way his body feels against another. 

Then he feels the way Elric is shaking like a leaf. Just this once, then.

When they part pale hands cup his cheeks. A critical eye surveying him for the smallest cut or remnants of a bruise. The relief when he finds nothing flows from Elric in waves.

“Had I the strength left to conjure a glamour I would not have abandoned you.”

_Oh, he hadn’t even thought about it._ “You got flattened by a giant heap of metal for me. I’d hardly call that _abandonment.”_

“Even with the creature gone, I should have stayed.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” and when the man recoils, “it gave you a chance to recover. To get all this going.”

He gestures to the decorated house beyond. 

Elric quickly accepts that his guilt doesn’t need an excuse; good, too, because they don’t have a lot of time to spend on heart-to-hearts.

“You have dedicated yourself to this plan, then.”

It catches Taylor by surprise. “If you mean this is what we’re going with? Then yes. We all agreed it’s worth the risk.”

Well, not _all._ Not Tonya — she had no choice. Not Isadora or Kristof or even Elric. But Isadora had come. 

Elric was here, in front of him. And he’s giving his son a look of scrutiny that feels a little too judgmental for their current predicament.

“Something has changed about you.”

“I mean, I could use a shower.”

“Not about _you,”_ like that’s not what he just said, “but _about _you. A change clings to your soul.

“It says…” his eyes widen with realization, “you truly believe this can work?”

He’s not questioning Taylor’s resolve. That he somehow knows unspoken. But it makes sense… up until now (and really still, only with a little more coffee and a lot more planning) he’s been Mister Negativity, Mister Ready-to-Die. 

Why wouldn’t he be? No clue, no hope, no faith — no power. And not much is situationally different, yet still.

He chooses his words carefully. “I think we have a better chance this time around.”

“Time to plan, perhaps. Yet these same numbers you gather here could do nothing to it before. Unless you’ve found the creature’s weakness.”

“Jeez, Dad, can you just trust me on this?” 

The words come out of him at an unnatural angle. The way they _feel _habitual but definitely aren’t — that first time you fuck up and call a teacher ‘Mom’ in kindergarten.

They’ve got the same dumb look on their face, haven’t they?

Catching scaffolding with his back isn’t enough to suddenly make Taylor want to look into every other weekend and major holidays with the man but it’s certainly not nothing. 

Nor is his exclamation, not kind or pleading by any means but filled with frustration sometimes only a parent can bring bursting forth.

He steps out of arms’ reach just in case.

Because Elric looks like he’s about to start weeping.

“I do. And I am sorry for not… for conveying that improperly.”

“Apology accepted.”

But the deed is done; their dynamic forever changed. For some reason the first thing Taylor thinks of is Elric taking him to sit in the nosebleeds at a football game — in full Lamrian splendor but with a Saints hat covering his ears.

And the only protest his dumb brain can come up with? That he hates football. Like nothing _else _is wrong with that mental image.

_Focus, Taylor, focus._

“We know things now that we didn’t before. We’ll be expecting an attack this time.”

“You are certain it will come?”

“I’d stake my life on it.” Poor choice of words.

“You will do no such thing.” His expression going dark, Elric’s jaw clenches firm. “I do not regret my attempts to stay out of this battle for my people, or those to try and keep you safe by whatever means kept you from the fight.

“But I watched my son turn his back on me — a braver soul than I and in so few years. For the past I will do whatever can be done in the present.”

“Yeah yeah, heard it all before.”

But it isn’t dismissal for dismissal’s sake — says that enough in the long look they exchange. 

In Lamrian he remembers with clarity; had seen standing before him a coward.

And that may very well have been true. But Taylor isn’t the only one who has a change about him, clinging to him like a thin film.

He’s trying. And that’s all any of them can do.

* * *

You know who’s _not _so keen on trying?

Three guesses. Go on.

“Go over it just one more time for me.”

“There’s nothing more to add, Ryder.”

“I mean I ain’t questionin’ your memory but…”

“For once I’m inclined to agree. But that’s really all there was to it.”

Beside them Cal adjusts the thawing T-Bone higher on his face. “Speak for yourself.”

Taylor snatches a peek of the swollen, purpled eye beneath it and cringes. “Are you sure there’s nothing Ivy can do?”

“Nah,” the wolf’s sigh is a little too heavy, “was my damn fault for thinkin’ I could call an Alpha’s honor into question anyway. I jus’ got caught up thinkin’ about the stakes, and seein’ Donny, and all that energy he was puttin’ out…”

Vera shushes him, manages to get a more sanitary solution to the wounds with small dabs of antibacterial paste. “This — _men _don’t do this, Cal. Animals do this.” And even with only one good eye the look he gives her says it all. “You know what I mean.”

“There’re some things that just gotta be settled with the wolf.”

Cadence makes a conscious effort to keep his pat to Cal’s back on the gentler side but the man still winces, sore. “Well I had every confidence in you. It was rather fascinating to watch, actually.”

“Wait wait —” all eyes on the vampire who blinks owlish; innocent, and Taylor can’t believe what he’s hearing; “— you just _stood and watched?”_

And though the blond splutters a number of protests, the group’s collective sympathy is lacking. 

“The same man who broke a Minotaur’s spine in six diff’rent places for that same pack of wolves.”

Only maybe because he’s a vampire his face can’t blush red — no, no he’s seen it. So why then does Cadence go pale all the way to the lips?

“That was a… unique situation.”

“Relax, guys, there was nothin’ he could’a done anyway.” There’s an unspoken irony in Cal being the one to call off the dogs, but it works. 

But it’s not like their group vampire hasn’t been strange from the beginning. Taylor’s still not convinced it wasn’t someone else, like an evil double, who threatened his way into Persephone’s cage to fight on Donny’s behalf. He certainly can’t imagine the man in front of him doing it — plaid sweater aside.

When Taylor catches Cade catching him stare he fumbles, doesn’t really have an excuse but thankfully doesn’t need one. Not when the entire House can hear Kristof shouting somewhere unseen, something about “Who do I gotta see about gettin’ a six pack around here?!”

By process of eliminating who Kristof wouldn’t immediately attack it’s Vera who sighs and pushes onward. Taylor would go himself but he hangs back instead — gently grabs for Cal’s arm and attention.

So much of their plan rests on every single person the Coven Elders are targeting being in one place tonight. They can’t risk Kristof leaving in a wild stampede.

But he never meant for _this _— for every grunted effort as Cal’s body actually puts conscious effort into healing in time. 

Because it isn’t a matter of _if_ Reimonenq the Wraith will come — but _when._

“I know that look Taylor, you’re overthinkin’,” the smile Cal gives him isn’t betrayed by his pain — or maybe just stronger than it, “I knew what I was doin’ and I’d do it again if need be.”

“You mean for that to be reassuring but it’s not reassuring Cal, it’s not.”

“We all played our part.”

“Yeah, but we _all _didn’t have a dick of a guy play _Whack-a-Mole_ with our faces.”

Cal throws his head back and laughs until it physically hurts. He insists he’ll be fine after a few drinks and some rest. Taylor just hopes they can afford to give him that time. 

When they finally move to join the others he offers his shoulder for the wolf to prop himself up on. The pride in his eyes says no but the arm that seeps lava-like warmth through Taylor’s clothes acts otherwise.

“I wasn’t so keen on the beating,” Cal mumbles just before they reach the garden doors, “but I’d take a lot worse to go back there for longer.”

He doesn’t need to ask why. They both know. “Donny holding up okay?”

“He’s a Lowell — he’ll be just fine.”

_He will be,_ though, that’s the implication and it makes his heart sink. 

_Remember what The Fate said. He’s alive — that matters._

There’s only one ward this time — the point already proven that it’s more for decoration than any real use. But trying to keep something _out _is the exact opposite of the point.

The noise from the hustle and bustle of the French Quarter fills in in lieu of music. Gives a boisterous abandon to the air where otherwise it hangs like a noose around their precariously balancing necks.

It’s a party worthy of dozens; crowds of people from all walks of life — Pack or gang or family it didn’t matter with the celebration at hand. Or it would if there were more than the bare essentials; than Taylor and the rest, those left making up the Council that aren’t actively trying to kill them all or, in the Mayor’s case, woefully oblivious.

Then Ryder is at his side, flask in familiar hand. He tries—and fails—to cover up when he reaches for Taylor like holding on to any part of him will get them through this unscathed. 

Mostly because in the process of faking a yawn he just swallows a mouthful of liquor. 

“You look like you’re overthinkin’ this.”

_Of course he is. Aren’t they all?_ “Actually, I was just admiring how much they were able to get done. This place looks like an actual celebration.”

Because it doesn’t matter how many attendees the party is _worthy _of. All that matters is the one they need to show up.

Nik’s eyes sweep the garden with a satisfied nod. “Definitely the most gussied-up trap I’ve ever taken part in. You’ve got a real eye for this, Rook.”

“Does that mean if I decide to go into the oddly specific party-slash-hellspawn-trap planning business you’ll join me?”

“There’s prob’ly better money in it.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

They laugh. They lock eyes.

They both know it would be the perfect moment if absolutely everything about it was different. 

Taylor inhales to keep from smelling the whiskey on his breath as Nik leans forward — places a firm kiss right at his hairline.

_Okay… maybe not everything needs to be different._

“Last chance to veto the plan.”

He murmurs it into the sweat and dirt on the man’s skin; knows that with all they’ve rushed to put together in the final hours of the final days he can’t possibly smell any better.

It takes Nik a pause to respond; to keep his tone steady and certain and rock-solid. One of them has to be.

“Do you want me to?”

“Only if you have a better one.” 

And they both know this plan is it. The last chance, the only thing they have left up their collective sleeves. If it doesn’t work…

If it doesn’t work then at least Taylor knows he did his best, and that his last moments were ones like this.

“We could always make a run for it,” but before he can pull back, before he can tell Nik it isn’t a funny joke, he’s held closer; almost painfully so, “jus’ you an’ me on the open road. Doubt they’d come after us once we’re clear of here… An’ yeah, means we could never come back but I ain’t exactly Mister ‘Community Ties.’”

“You’d really leave our friends behind?”

“Fine, they can come too.”

“Are we all piled on top of your motorcycle in this scenario?”

“Nah… maybe a trailer or somethin’. I know a couple of lifers who live at RV outposts off the beaten path.”

It isn’t the idea of leaving New Orleans—the Council—the whole shadow community to their fates that’s the appeal. The appeal is a happier time; a better way. Even if it’s rough and a little uncomfortable and _quickly pushing aside thoughts of Wolfman Cal and an RV that never doesn’t smell like wet dog…_ it would be their life. One they carved for themselves. 

No intervention (or lack thereof) from higher powers to speak of.

“All right—you’ve convinced me. Let’s scram.” Taylor teases. Neither of them moves an inch.

Not even when they start to squeeze one another so hard it hurts.

“Should leave before anyone notices.”

“Probably.”

The two men part. Because he’s not meant to notice the single wet streak down Nik’s cheek, he doesn’t. 

Calloused fingertips tickle the barely-there hair on his chin; coax Taylor to lift his head where he catches the last light in the Nighthunter’s eyes before a single bottle rocket goes off behind him and showers his dark head in a halo.

“This is a good plan, Rook. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

“That’s because you’re not used to _having _a plan.”

“You… well you ain’t wrong.”

Eventually the fireworks begin to go off near the Mississippi — sparkling showers a brighter white than the moon itself, dazzling configurations in spirals and spheres and one memorable golden _fleur de lis_ — and there’s a shift to the air within the garden walls.

It’s nearly midnight. 

It’s time.

“Is everyone gathered?” asks Elric of his son, suddenly at his side — joining him in looking to the sky to admire human handiwork.

He knows the answer but quadruple-checks anyway. His heart picks up a few beats with every familiar face taken in.

_Bring everyone together. Draw the Elders out of hiding._

Kristof. Elric. Isadora. The Coven’s final obstacles.

_Do whatever it takes to force their hands; to bring the bloodwraith Derek Reimonenq down on them like a final reckoning._

Cadence. Tonya. The bloodwraith’s personal vendetta.

_And hope this works._

Just _there,_ behind Vera’s forced smile under the glowing apples of light on a garden tree — a face half-hidden in shadow. A young man, probably around Taylor’s age; burdened with the knowledge of how this will end and only able to stand witness.

He looks away from The Fate and finds a little bit of that hope he needs so desperately in the way Elric looks at him with pride.

“Take it down.”

This time Lord Elric takes the duty on his own shoulders rather than those of his subjects. Raises his hands high to the dark sky and begins to unravel the threads of his strongest wards.

Fresh night air prickles gooseflesh down his arms. They are coming.

Then the earth is warm beneath his shoes. The smell of fresh blossoms and fae-ripened fruits replaced with the embers of an all-consuming inferno.

They’re here.

Across the garden Taylor and Elder Daniels lock eyes and are held, bound, by something more than magic. Something that permeates the material world around them and isn’t easily defined.

But if he had to pick he would only need one word: _conviction._

He thrusts his soda can out at her in toast. Gathers up all of his voice and shouts with a face-splitting grin.

_“Laissez les bon temps rouler!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about posting this two days late! Just had some things to deal with that kept me away but the wait was worth it, I hope!
> 
> And finally, we’re here. Thank you to all those who have stayed with me this far and continue with me still! Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	21. Come Hell and High Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please, please let this work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** violence, blood, wounds

“Even with what you now know you would bring them here — together.”  


Catching the Elders by surprise wasn’t a part of the plan for good reason; thinking they could get one over on the people who have been planning this for who-knows-how-long would just be arrogant.

Doesn’t make the sharp cunning of Elder Daniels’ glare any less intimidating.

“Do you think it too much to hope they understand why this is necessary? What part they played in the inevitability of this?”

Elder Vion remains silent; his opaque gaze observing both everything and nothing — but where does it focus? 

“You remain as blind to the present as ever, Millet.” chides Daniels.

Elder Millet’s shoulders slump. The only one to show any kind of remorse — genuine or otherwise. “A little optimism never hurt anyone…”

Elder Daniels doesn’t deem her worth a response. Focuses instead on looking out over the garden party with a forced disinterest; the mask of her neutrality firmly in place.

But Taylor can see through the gaps and cracks now. To the edges that curl around her real emotions. Contempt, disgust; as though the choice to gather despite knowing the Coven’s plans is a personal attack on her careful cultivation of the future.

He’s the first to address them properly. Down the steps to the decorative gravel the Lamrian decorators sprinkled with crushed gemstone. 

“Thank you for coming, Coven Elders.” He’d step closer if Nik’s steady hand doesn’t stop on his shoulder — hold him at a distance. But they can’t seem hesitant if this is going to work. “It wouldn’t be a Council party without everyone on the Council attending.”

He still has no idea if this is going to work. _Please, please let this work. _

Elder Millet shuffles her tarot deck like a nervous habit. Daniels steeples her claw-like fingertips together in front of her and, like an unspoken signal, Vion’s grip on his staff grows pale-knuckled tight. 

Power pushes out from them in an invisible wave. Just once; but once is all it takes. He feels it, Nik feels it — everyone feels how the pressure changes in the air; how something old like the mantle of the earth tastes at the backs of their throats.

Let the countdown begin.

“Explain this little… _gathering,”_ demands Daniels with a sneer.

Only it’s Tonya who answers. She stands on shivering legs with Vera’s help but to call her feeble would be to call the wraith itself a minor inconvenience. 

She may no longer have the Touch but Lady Smoke is far from powerless in their presence.

“You’re the one who ought to be explainin’ themselves, Ophelia Daniels.”

The women stare one another down. It’s obvious every second spent standing is agony but _hell _if Tonya Reimonenq is going to lose even in her current state.

Vion steps forward and stays his companion’s hand. That familiar tingle of empathy down his spine makes Taylor shudder; makes him see Cassiopeia’s blood stained up to leathery elbows — falling to the ground in a _drip. drip. drip._

“If the Council has an accusation, let it be heard.”

Isadora hisses from across the garden, “The _gall _of you, traitors and murderers…”

“Such stinging words to your claims!”

“One of many!”

“Have you witness or evidence?”

“Aw hell,” the lumbering figure of Kristof breaks the growing threads of tension by stepping forward — strangely the calmest he’s been insofar, “cut the crap, will ya? We know you’re the ones tuggin’ that hellspawn’s leash.”

It’s instinct, he doesn’t mean to. Looking away from their very dangerous guests of honor Taylor catches Cadence’s eye for only a moment before snapping back forward. They can’t risk anything longer catching the Elders’ attentions.

“Do you now?” asks Daniels coolly, “I regret to inform you that knowledge will not give your sacrifices any amount of dignity.”

“There is more at risk within this city’s borders than the dignity of the few, Ophelia.”

It must be magic; how Elric speaks clearly and is undeniably heard despite the fireworks that crackle overhead; without even raising his voice.

The sharp curve of Daniels’ smirk is a malicious one. “I will not suffer a cowering outcast to speak to me of dignity. You still breathe only because your hidden city’s wards have protected you.”

“I am not cowering now, am I?”

“The night is young.”

Anger hangs thick and stifling on the edge of every word and Taylor — _god _— he can feel it all. 

The Coven’s unwavering conviction, Isadora’s desire for revenge, Kristof’s refusal to die anywhere but on his hind paws. The strangely smug way Lady Smoke feels like she should have seen all of this coming and the fierce protectiveness Elric projects at him without shame.

But hidden in the woven tapestry of them all is a single thread, sour and ill at ease but no less recognizable. He’s no longer a stranger to what _fear _feels like.

“If you would, then — indulge us the most obvious of questions;” even with the distance between them Elric, towering at least a foot taller than Daniels and her power-stilettos, looks down his nose at her, _“why?”_

“You’ll have to be a tad more specific.”

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me?!” Kristof rages. “They’re playin’ us fer fools!” Yet his monstrous howl of rage is silenced by the elf lord’s pale hand raised; staying him.

“That may be, Jensen, but surely I am not the only one here who wishes to understand. Who wonders why the formerly reasonable Coven would change so abruptly. And why they would decide to act now—of all times—and with such vicious intent.”

“It’s not the Coven that’s changed.”

At first Elder Millet’s voice is lost, timid, on the wind. Like a spectre from the beyond there to bolster a claim. But no one misses when she stops shuffling her deck, flips over the top card to reveal a gruesome and bloodied tyrant.

The Emperor reversed.

“There have been signs more than what we witches witness. Signs in the earth and skies, in the lifeblood that runs through our city. But you — your _Council _— have been complacent; content to ignore them. Focused instead on your own gains and greed. We considered every option, please believe it. 

“But this was the only way our city might stand a chance of surviving the coming darkness. A unified voice, when divided, would only serve to hasten our downfall.”

“If you had approached the Council — shown us the signs we so easily missed —”

“When did it become the duty of the Coven to play prophet to the willingly ignorant?!” Daniels interrupts loud and unashamed. “To the immortal and oh-so-wise faire folk, or the creatures of dark magic who should have felt the gathering storm in their bestial bones! Or to you, _Lady Smoke,_ with ears in every room on every block.

“Admit your guilt — not that it will save you. Admit your hunger for power and wealth led you into the blind fog that the Council should have been beyond the reaches of. For the downfall of New Orleans would have been your burden to bear.”

“Had you not stepped forward and assumed some sort of divine control, you mean?” demands Isadora. 

“Make no mistake — we chose this course of our own free will. Because we were the only ones left untainted; loyal to this our sanctuary city.”

Elric steps forward, not without caution. “There has been enough death, Ophelia. Stop, now, at the threshold of a fall you will not survive.”

“Every death has been _and will be_ a necessary one.”

Something about the _victory _in her claim riles Taylor from the inside out. Makes the words throw themselves out of him unbidden—

“Even yours.”

It’s probably the closest Daniels has ever come — and will ever be again — to a look of surprise. A dozen thoughts half-formed on mute lips before she schools her expression complacent.

_“An unseen complication indeed.”_

But that doesn’t make Taylor recoil as it once did. In fact he’s kind of proud of it. “How about instead of demanding everyone else admit some imagined guilt because of your desire for power, _you three_ do the admitting? Admit you know this isn’t the so-called _only way_ and try to muster up a little bit of _humanity_— Try and feel even the tiniest bit of remorse for what you’ve done because deep down you _know it was wrong.”_

Nik tenses behind him. He can feel it where they’re connected; his guttural hissing thought of _think about the plan, Rook. _

And maybe it wasn’t how they originally hoped to get the final piece of the puzzle but maybe—just maybe—it might go in their favor.

For the first time the Coven Elders part; Daniels breaks away in even, purposeful strides to close the distance between them. 

Taylor feels the way Nik tenses, readies himself for the inevitable attack.

But it doesn’t come. Not physically, anyway. Only the look the witch gives him that may very well will him out of existence.

“Your blind stumbling has gotten you far little halfling. But you’ve come far enough, I think.”

“You wanna know what _I_ think?”

“Not particularly.”

“I think that’s not really your call. The same way I think deep down you _know _you’re just as greedy as you say everyone else is. You’re just pretending to think about the greater good.”

Then there’s a movement; so fast it’s a blur. A stinging pain on his cheek and a sensation akin to tears rolling down his face. 

Everything that follows still comes as a surprise despite having been building in the tension on both sides. The night air harsh on his open wound and a crisp ache in his shoulder as he’s yanked backwards and behind Ryder; a leather-clad shield.

Movement in his periphery and Nik goes flying backwards. Hurled by a tornado of unseen power.

_“Nik!” _

_“This ends tonight!”_ Daniels raises her outstretched arms high to the heavens. Draws clouds from nowhere and everywhere to blot out the moon and the stars. The darkness within consuming the world outside her soul.

“You’re damn right it does—!”

Katherine pulls out Nik’s crossbow from underneath a nearby folding chair; wields it weightlessly as she aims at the witch and pulls the trigger. 

Daniels deflects it with little effort. Sends the bolt flying towards the outer brick wall.

Behind their companion the other Elders whisper curses into the very wind. Once-solid ground ripples like water and their influence takes hold.

The trees around them bend and twist; their natural states resisting the witches’ call with an eldritch orchestra of groans before they yield. Roots torn up and fallen leaves and broken branches coming together; an army.

“Ah hell, not again!” shouts Cal; voice distorted with the wolf already pushing against his skin.

There’s hands at his arms — Taylor looks up to see Cadence struggling to drag him backwards towards… what? Towards _safety?_ There’s no such thing anymore.

Still he scrambles up and back. Ducks just as the windows at the back of the House shatter under Elder Millet’s will. Just as she sends the broken shards hurtling in a transparent flock coming directly for him.

Above him comes a barely-restrained cry of pain; Taylor looks up to see two pieces lodged deep in the vampire’s shoulder. 

“Cade!”

“I’m fine!” Like he’s trying to prove a point he shoves Taylor backwards, stumbling; “Go check on Ryder! Keep to the plan!”

Wet tearing noises fill the clearing as Kristof the wolf pries free of his skin — Octavia right at his heels. Together they howl at the cloaked moon and take off on all fours towards Elder Vion. 

But with a limber motion his withered body shouldn’t be capable of the witch fights back. Whips his staff out; sending roots from the nearest tree to his aid. They lash, sentient, at the wolves’ hind paws — one hits home and ropes around Octavia’s flank, squeezes and sends the Beta crashing snout-first into the gravel.

The Beau-Keyes Garden is in chaos but Cade is right. They should have expected this. _He needs to find Nik._

Taylor takes off in a mad dash towards the hedges where the Nighthunter had been thrown. Catches the tail-end of Vera and Ivy pulling Tonya out of the fray and into the House.

A cluster of something dark scurries on the whipping wind towards them, right at Ivy’s back. “Ivy, watch it!” Voice catching in his lungs — but its enough. 

Enough for Ivy to turn around with bright burning eyes at the incoming horde. Her peeled-back lips move in silent words and her hair lifts around her in a neon-tipped halo. The incoming swarm — _Millet’s tarot deck_ — stop mid-flight; repelled by whatever curse the revenant has conjured.

The cards shudder, then begin to crumple and squeeze themselves into balls. One last flick of Ivy’s lace-laden wrists and they spontaneously burst into a dozen individual flames, hot-pink heat licking at the air and casting her ghoulish grin of glee in flickering light that burns bright before they are consumed — nothing but ash scattered at her platform-raised feet.

A hand closes tight around his wrist and pulls him back. Catches him in half a scream when he turns and sees the stern pull of Elric’s brow. 

“What are you thinking; standing here exposed?! Get to cover!”

“Not without—_incoming _—” he pulls them both to the ground just in time for a large branch to soar overhead and crack against the trunk of another tree, “— Nik! I have a plan, remember?”

“If your life is the cost —”

“It’s not!”

“Then _please, find safety!”_

“I’m not leaving them behind!” He meets Elric’s eyes in a long look — ignores the cacophony around them and clasps their hands together. Can’t tell which of their palms is slick with sweat; maybe both. “I need you to trust me, Dad. I can do this.”

And they’re no longer in the midst of the fight but back in time; back to a mere hour ago when he asked Elric to trust him once; now again. _“I can do this.”_

The fae inhales; nods and rasps, “What do you need from me?”

_Thank you._ “Get the Elders on the defensive. They need to summon the bloodwraith.”

_“What?!”_

“You said you’d trust me!”

It’s a struggle, but Elric swallows down his protests and nods. “Very well. Find your Nighthunter; do whatever you need to prepare. Leave the rest to me.”

One last squeeze and they part. Taylor’s already halfway across the garden when he hears Elric shout strong and clear; “Garrus! Lend me your hand!” And it’s such a shock that he almost trips; almost.

Mustering up the last of his energy Taylor vaults over the farthest hedge; goes crashing into the lawn on the other side to find Nik lying limp and still.

_No—no no nono…_

He moves through the pain. Blinks through the tears piercing pain at his wounded cheek and pulls the hunter to lie on his back where he can check for injury—for a pulse—for _anything._

“Nik wake up,” and fighting through the violent shaking in his hands is hard—near impossible—but he manages two fingers to the man’s pulse, “Nik—please please wake up. We can still do this — but there’s no way in hell I’m doing it without you.”

But he can’t tell what’s a possible sign of life and what’s his own blood pounding through every vessel in his body like his blood wants freedom. He tucks a hand under dark hair and can’t help the strangled noise he makes when he feels slick wetness matted at the crown of his head.

“Oh no—no no no…” Fuck now he’s scared to turn the man over; to make it worse. “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening…”

And he’s not being entirely truthful — not even with himself. The plan surely could work without Nik at his side but why would he want it like that? He doesn’t — he can’t even imagine it.

Taylor looks up and around. Wildly searches for someone who can help — someone who knows more, someone who can do _something._ But they’re all too far.

He isn’t sure he’d be able to call out to them even if they were.

It’s an actual effort to manage Nik’s limp head into his lap. What the fuck is he supposed to do? Slap his cheek, shake his shoulders like in the movies? Only those aren’t real head wounds on film — just actors with fake blood squirting in packs like ketchup and prosthetic makeup making them look battered and bruised.

Nik _is _battered and bruised. There’s nothing _fake _about it. This isn’t a movie; they aren’t on a set and his tears aren’t eye drops. They’re real. Everything about this is real.

“Oh fuck—fuckfuck_fuck…”_

When he pulls his hand back to the sight of red smeared on his fingers, he almost comes undone. Stays sane only because one fleeting thought, more of a background notion really, rattles in an echo around his skull in a voice that isn’t his own.

_Those who seek to change destiny never understand how to bring it closer._

His rational mind is right: this isn’t a movie. Everything that’s happened has been real—from the smallest arguments to the biggest tragedies.

Nik is real. Cal is real—_werewolves _are real. _Vampires, shapeshifters, revenants_ and _spirits _and even _witches _are real. _Fae _are real. _Fae halflings_ — yup, real too.

And if there were times where Donny wasn’t saved, or the Council did fall to the Elders and their plan, or Taylor died in the cemetery that night, then didn’t that mean there were times that Nik didn’t survive this encounter, too?

But Donny _was _saved. The Council _won’t _fall to the Elders and Taylor _didn’t _die that night.

He refuses to let this be the one thing that can’t be changed.

“Breathe, Rookie, breathe…” Taylor whispers, forces his voice to keep calm and his hands that cradle Nik’s skull to go still. Because he knows how to change destiny this time; he’s done it before.

He doesn’t need to feel a pulse under the man’s skin because when he closes his eyes; reaches down inside his chest he can feel something there. Dim and flickering but so very present. A flame that wants to grow; it just needs to be fed first.

If there’s an incantation he doesn’t know it. But he knows how badly he wants Nik to heal; how bright he wants to feel the man’s soul inside.

There has to be a reason he is the way he is. Why can’t it be to save Nik Ryder?

There’s a flash against his closed eyelids; bright like someone turned on the sun in the middle of midnight. A switch flicking a lamp to life; or logs thrown on a campfire to keep him warm.

And when he opens them he has to squint through the burn of brightness but that’s not a bad thing. Not where that light filters through Nik’s hair askew and tingles at Taylor’s palms. Warms them in rays of daylight soft and flecked with dust motes, wipes them clean of dirt, clean of tears; clean of blood like it was never there to begin with.

Looking down at Nik’s slackened face; searching every scarred inch for some sign of life he knows is there; treading water just below the surface.

His heart skips a beat. Nik’s eyes flutter open; awake and alive. And the sight of color and life on his face is so fucking beautiful that it makes him start to cry all over again.

Around them fades to dim night but Nik still looks up at him with a strange wonderment. Reaches up and drags the calloused pad of his thumb across Taylor’s cheek to catch his tears before they fall.

“C’mon now,” comes that familiar throaty whisper; he doesn’t have to see the smirk to know it’s there like a kiss at the edge of the man’s lips, “sure as hell you ain’t sheddin’ those tears for _me,_ Rook, are ya?”

“‘Course not.” Taylor teases back — bends himself practically in half as he leans down to take that offered kiss because he can.

_Because Nik is alive._

They part — Nik holds himself up on a wobbly arm and reaches, feels around his head where even the ghost of his injury is a fading dream. And when his fingers pull back clean and without blood Taylor’s heart stutters back to life.

“Should I ask?”

But he doesn’t even know how to _start _explaining what happened — doesn’t quite understand it himself except for the fact it was instinct like he’s never known. “Maybe when this is over.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

_Make sure you do,_ he wants to say; instead touches the curve of Nik’s jaw because he’s there and he can.

Reality crashes back around them; suffocates what’s left of their bewilderment in the large form of a wolf.

It comes crashing through the hedges just shy of them. Taylor peers over the protective form of Nik’s shoulder just in time to see the shine of the werewolf’s yellow eyes before they roll backwards and Octavia slumps down; limp and unconscious.

“Why the hell ain’t they summoned the fuckin’ wraith yet?”growls Nik. He uses what’s left of their cover to survey the fight; locks his sights on Elder Daniels as she pulls at invisible strings and sends a fallen branch forth to sink home in Isadora’s belly.

The vampire hisses and collapses, catches herself just shy of impalement and desperately claws for her freedom.

“They’re trying to take out the Council on their own —” Taylor cuts himself off as he searches the fray in panic for any sign of Elric.

“That ain’t a part of the plan, Rook.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Then what the hell’re we supposed to—_holy hellfire!”_

But it isn’t hellfire — not quite. Burns just as hot but Taylor’s pretty certain hellfire isn’t made of pitch black flame that shimmers iridescent as it races in tendrils towards the Elders; presses them against one another back to back in prowling circles that scorch the earth at their feet.

The mere sight of it captivates the entire Garden. Causes the witches to hold their combined magics out to defend their ranks against the fiery lashes.

Elric commands the stream of fae grimfire like a natural extension of himself. Raises his hand to send another wave in that raise the walls and keep the Elders pinned together.

“Accept your defeat, Elders of the Garden Coven, lest justice be swift and without mercy!”

But he isn’t alone. With sleeves rolled up to the elbow Garrus coaxes the grimfire at the witches’ heels. Sweeping movements of his arms drag the vestiges of it away from the rest of the Garden and tighter against their commanded foes.

This is it. This is their final chance.

“Where’s Vee?! It’s time!”

“Go —” Nik pushes him up and forward; makes Taylor stumble over a pulled-up root now rendered lifeless; the Elders’ magic contained in spectral fire, “— if they’re cornered, they’re desperate. They’ll call him forward soon.”

But Taylor can’t even comprehend the thought of leaving Nik’s side. Of not being there — not keeping him safe. “No way.”

“Now ain’t the time to argue!” 

“There’s no way I’m leaving you again!”

_“Rook.”_ And its just one word—one stupid little nickname he doesn’t even _like_—but he pushes so much meaning into it that Taylor’s feet move with a will of their own. Carry him out from safety’s cover with Nik hot on his heels until he veers into the Beau-Keyes House gone dark.

It takes literally _everything _in his churning gut not to follow. 

Instead he breathes, stomps down the unease building inside — threatening to crest and consume him — and joins Elric in front of the Elders.

Every attempt the witches make against their ethereal prison is consumed and rendered powerless. If he didn’t know better — if he wasn’t _hoping _for this to be what forces their hand — Taylor might almost believe they’ve won.

“Enough fighting, Daniels. _Please.”_

The woman turns her head in a lash. Nothing but unbridled rage in empty eyes. 

“Your persistence is no longer amusing, little pest.”

He knows his pleas are falling on deaf ears but… but doesn’t he owe it to everything they’ve lost to _try?_

“Look— you said part of the reason you decided to act was because the Council was so divided. But—but here everyone is! You brought them together. Can’t that be enough?”

It’s a useless question. He knows it, Elder Daniels knows it too. He can see it in her eyes.

“We are beyond the point of peace.”

“We don’t have to be.”

“Your ignorance will be your undoing.” She turns her back on him; on everyone. Joins Millet and Vion in clasped hands and bowed heads as though the grimfire is nothing more than an illusion.

This is what they wanted— what they’ve been waiting for ever since the Elders appeared tonight. But hearing the familiar incantation harmonized between them is no less haunting.

_“Claw and blood, claw and bone.  
Bloodied flesh, endless stone…”_

“They are summoning the abomination!” Isadora shouts. Her voice cracks as she gives one last violent pull; wrenches the branch free from her body and hurls it aside. “Stop them, burn them!”

But the plan isn’t to _stop them._ Still, Taylor understands. Feels it, too. The sickening _wrongness _in his gut only made worse by the familiar smell of foul and rot that seeps in like a putrid fog.

The effort it takes to hold the grimfire steady shows on Elric’s pallid face. “Are you sure about this?” he asks through gritted teeth. And he’s really not—can’t be _sure _of anything anymore—but that isn’t the answer he gives.

“Yes. Let them do it.”

_“Soar with the zephyr, shriek with the crow.  
Life renewed we now bestow.”_

Elric looks ahead to where the strain of their casting has Garrus ready to collapse. He gives the man a silent nod, and almost in relief and a perfect mirror they pull clenched fists apart to end the conjuring.

The grimfire eats itself from the bottom up. Dissipates at the edges of itself until the multicolored flames are only a remnant burned on the insides of Taylor’s eyelids. Beside him Elric begins to sag sideways as the exhaustion takes hold; he throws the man’s arm around his shoulder to keep him standing steady. He watches in relief as Krom refuses to let his fae collapse; catches him in strong stone arms and with unheard praises.

But the Elders continue their wicked chant; they either don’t notice or don’t care with victory within their reach.

_“Arise hellbound soul! We beseech and command  
Fell our enemies with your cursed hand!”_

Around them the wind begins to gather — pushes aside the cloud cover overhead and bathes the Garden in moonlight. Just like the last time they stood here gathered. Just like that night in the cemetery. 

“Ryder!” Katherine calls; tosses the crossbow the short distance as he approaches with Vera on his heels. “We sure this is gonna work?”

Nik looks up at the sky with a grim resignation. “I think it’s a bit too late for doubts.”

As one the Coven Elders turn to face their accusers. The wind lashes Millet’s hair in tendrils and billows Vion’s robes; blows Daniels’ collar this way and that yet they remain rooted to the earth. 

They stand with their convictions until the very end.

“Perhaps in number you can overpower us,” Daniels sneers, “but whatever scraps of this little front survive the wraith’s touch will be easy pickings.”

Over their heads a shadow passes over the moon. The telltale whip of burial wrappings hisses in their ears — followed by the unholy shriek they know all too well.

Daniels’ hands raise to the sky as the bloodwraith approaches.

“Come wretched creature; come accursed traitor! Pay your oath in the blood and bone of our enemies! Know no rest until our great work is done!”

The bloodwraith descends slow; places itself between the Elders and the rest as a shield grotesque. This time is no different than before — the very sight of it makes the hairs on the back of Taylor’s neck stand and scream to _run, flee, there is no salvation here._

He used to think nothing could equal the void and despair where Death itself burns black in its eyes. But now that he sees them in the same space, he sees the same lifeless purpose like a stain over Daniels’ face.

But knowing what he knows now has Taylor looking at the wraith in a different way. Still with the same revulsion natural of the living to the violent dead — but he tries to imagine the face that once framed that skull as the same one from the photograph in Cadence’s office.

Familial features shared by both Tonya and Vera now twisted, warped by bloodlust and the unnatural.

And even worse — finds himself searching for some hint of the first victim to all of this madness. _How could something so evil come from a soul like Cassiopeia?_ He didn’t even _know _the girl and yet those brief moments sharing a piece of her soul — her last moments — gave him a grief he felt tasked with bearing the burden of.

Behind him there’s a rustling; a bundle wrapped in cloth passing from Cade to Vera’s bare hands.

“What are you doing?”

Vion’s croaking voice breaks through the tense silence. Matching looks of wary apprehension barely restrained as they pass between each of the Elders.

Their confusion is understandable. Nothing has stopped the bloodwraith in its grisly pursuit before.

But this time is different. Whatever mangled bits are left of Derek Reimonenq’s soul feel it. Taylor feels it; behind him his companions feel it too. The Elders are just the last to notice.

“What are you waiting for?” but Elder Millet’s voice isn’t as strong as the others — her concern betrays her; “You are tasked by your summoners. Go forth!”

Hackles rise when the creature inches forward only just. But Taylor stands his ground.

“That’s not right though, is it?”

“Silence halfling!”

_No, no more silence._ “It wasn’t _you _that summoned it. Not the first time. That was Cassiopeia—you remember her?” — there’s no denying the recognition, the last bit of life that flickers and dies behind the Elders’ eye s— “The witch who you were supposed to protect and care for, who was so scared of what she could do… but cared more about thanking you for taking her in when no one else would.

“She was willing to do anything, even the thing that scared her the most. And you took advantage of that.”

“How _dare you_ speak of such things—” says Millet. Elder Millet who she trusted, who she looked up to; who led her like a lamb to the slaughter.

“Who else is gonna speak for her? Certainly not you!”

“The girl’s sacrifice was a noble one, you will not diminish that!”

“She didn’t even know there was a sacrifice to _make._ Admit it,” and it’s awkward, ducking his head around the bloodwraith that hovers between them like a horrible marionette waiting for the puppet show to begin, but he _has _to look her murderers in the eyes because Cassiopeia never got the chance.

“You knew what you were doing was wrong. That’s why you dragged her out of her bed in the middle of the night, placated her like she was doing something _good._ Because it was the only way to get her to agree.”

The tiniest shame bubbles up from Millet’s direction. Makes it all the more important that he stares over that skeletal shoulder right into her eyes. 

“She may not have known the extent of what we needed of her… but she _did _do good for the future of the Coven; for the future of this city.”

“She didn’t know because you didn’t tell her.”

A scoff drags his attention away to where Elder Daniels has rounded on her companion — a fist clenched in the barest show of restraint. “Do not lose your conviction now. At the accusations of this—this ignorant child!”

She rounds back on Taylor every inch a wraith in her own right—reaffirms what invisible tether ties Reimonenq the wraith and the Coven together with palms raised to the sky; _“Enough of this! Kill the halfling first! I command you!”_

The bloodwraith’s neck cranes back at an unnatural angle and it howls to the wind, bloodstained talons reaching out and forward; compelled to attack.

His breath catches in his throat and Taylor squeezes his eyes shut. He braces himself—

For the pain that never comes. The icy grasp of a fate worse than death that he still can only imagine; still _must _only imagine.

Peeks a tentative eye open to the sight of Cassiopeia’s severed hand stretched out in Vera’s quivering grasp. 

A firsthand witness to how the small and humble sparks in Vera’s breast ignite into a blaze that consumes her soul.

“You will _not.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies yet again for a delayed chapter! Hope it is worth it! Comments and critique would be fabulous. Thank you for reading!


	22. Cleansing Grimfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Coven Elders deal with the consequences of their actions. Taylor and Elric participate in a father-son activity. The Council takes some responsibility.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** blood, violence, gore, minor character death

_The bloodwraith’s neck cranes back at an unnatural angle and it howls to the wind, bloodstained talons reaching out and forward; compelled to attack._   


_His breath catches in his throat and Taylor squeezes his eyes shut. He braces himself—_

_For the pain that never comes. The icy grasp of a fate worse than death that he still can only imagine; still_ must _only imagine._

_Peeks a tentative eye open to the sight of Cassiopeia’s severed hand stretched out in Vera’s quivering grasp. _

_A firsthand witness to how the small and humble sparks in Vera’s breast ignite into a blaze that consumes her soul._

_“You will_ not.”

The entire Garden watches in bated awe as the wraith obeys. Hovers back far enough where Taylor can breathe without the scent of rancid flesh in his mouth.

Oh he’s still scared shitless — and rightly so. But just like he can feel the bad things hovering in an aura around them so too can he feel the good.

And the sudden rush of adrenaline, defiance, _bravery _in Vera is incredible.

The Elders are still together, still united, but their understanding is unmistakable. They know whose hand Vera wields. They realize what has changed with its discovery. 

The only thing that hasn’t settled in to their collective hive mind is that it’s over.

“You killed Cassiopeia because she was the necromancer — she was the one in control of whatever creature she summoned and you needed that control to be yours and yours alone. You didn’t realize that you screwed yourselves.”

“‘Cause they were busy screwin’ everyone else,” huffs Nik behind him.

Millet has gone pale, the dark circles under her eyes pronounced against her almost skeletal pallor. “Her body became a totem.” Is that a hint of _resignation _in her tone? Or maybe just wishful thinking.

“Specifically her hand,” Cadence confirms with a nod, “like the trophies Reimonenq kept in his mortal life. If you had conjured up any random malevolent soul instead of going for sick, twisted irony maybe it would have been different but…”

“But she who holds the Hand holds the power.”

There was a lot about the plan that had been left up in the air. When, or if, the Coven Elders would even arrive. If they would summon the wraith immediately or attack in some other form. If there was even the smallest chance they could be convinced to stop the needless violence; their grab for power stayed in favor of the cooperation that should have happened in the first place.

But the one thing they had all been forced to agree upon was the one thing no one wanted to think about.

They had the totem, now what?

_An eye for an eye_ was the most logical, solved the most problems. But then how were they any better than the Elders?

They may have been forced to agree but that didn’t mean it was without argument.

Cadence had been the last one to exit the underground tomb, his gruesome work finally done. Cassiopeia’s hand had been wrapped in Cal’s flannel and held out between them all as an unholy relic.

It made sense for Nik to take it — for a Nighthunter to be the one to make the final blow whatever that blow may entail. 

Instead he held it out to Vera; insisted she take it. _“You’re the one who’s suffered the most here. He’s your kin.”_ And polite Vera, kind Vera; Vera who had been tangled up in this out of fear and a desire to save Kristin and had resigned herself to suffering a curse she could never lift, took the bloodied bundle and made her peace with accepting the burden.

Never said what she planned on doing — it was just assumed she’d send the creature after the Elders; wield the totem the way a hero wields a sword to deal the dragon a final blow.

Maybe it was something Vera didn’t know herself. Couldn’t know until she was in the moment and had to make the choice before hesitation was their undoing.

Well they’re in that moment now. Taylor watches her square her shoulders, her bare hands grasping real flesh for only the second time in her entire life, and knows she’s chosen.

The wind rustles her curls silently as Vera holds out the severed hand in offering to the bloodwraith.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” The words come out of Daniels’ mouth but they don’t sound like her at all — there’s no restraint in her fear now.

Vera doesn’t deign the woman worth an answer. Just watches, waits for the creature to move. But even it doesn’t seem to understand what her intentions are.

Vion sneers — but even that wavers. “Foolish mortal child. If you wish to live you will keep that thing _away _from its totem.”

“I won’t do it —” —she whips around to Taylor behind her, tears stinging where they well at her eyes— “— _I can’t do it,_ Tay. I can’t kill them.”

She can’t. If she does, she’s no better than they are. She’s the monster her mother is, the monster her ancestor is. Whether it’s true or not it’s how she feels so he feels it too.

“Baby girl if there was ever a time to grow a spine… now’s it.”

Vera stares over his shoulder to her mother’s wavering figure straining down the garden path.

They knew taking her out of the hospital was a necessary evil. She was the wraith’s last true victim. Her presence made some of the uncertainties of the plan less so because they knew it would come to finish what it started. But the fight, rushing her out of the fray; it’s proving to be too much. Ashen-faced and every muscle in her body screaming _let me rest_ but she doesn’t. 

Lady Smoke does not run from her enemies.

“Momma…”

Yet even with everything they’ve been through, despite her daughter refusing to leave her hospital bedside, there’s the furrow of command in her hardened face. She looks at Vera in the same way she had back at her club. Not a mother; a mob boss.

“Tonya, don’t —” Katherine tries to stay her advance but she’s shrugged off; hand batted away like a bothersome fly.

“Your whole life you’ve been runnin’ from who you are, Vera Claire. I shouldn’t have indulged it, that’s my sin to bear; lettin’ you make yourself weak. But now there’s lives at stake, includin’ your own. Maybe you still ain’t got the sense to use your gift for me but would you forgive yourself if your weakness killed everyone else?”

Vera can’t believe it. Frankly neither can anyone else. “What — Momma, stop. Why’re you doin’ this _now _of all times?”

“Because you’ve always been too stubborn to see what needs to be done!”

“No one else _needs _to die!”

“Then they’ll kill you first!”

“I won’t do it, goddammit —” if Smoke thought scolding her daughter would shame her into acting she has another thing coming, every word pulls Vera back from the murderous edge, _“— I won’t be you! I refuse! I refused then and I refuse now!”_

Vera’s voice cracks and the dam breaks; tears down her cheeks with the hovering shadow of pure evil behind her and a lifetime of rage and loathing coming out at the wrong moment but it wasn’t _she _who chose to rip open these old wounds now — so why should she have any mercy, any sympathy for the frail woman who _did this to herself._

“We were both here that night. But it went after you — and if you weren’t so obsessed with gettin’ back your damn Touch you’d realize why that is. I won’t do it. I won’t take a life, even like this. I won’t be you — I won’t be a monster.”

And it’s final this time; when she turns away from her mother to face her decision right in the bloodstained face. “Derek Reimonenq was a monster too. I won’t use him and I won’t become him to get what I want. I know there’s another way.”

“You know nothing of the craft,” all of Daniels’ malice shoved into one last push; one last attempt. Her hands twitch at her side but the witch knows better than to act. Acting runs the risk of losing the totem holding the bloodwraith bound — or the wraith itself. 

All her power and all the misery she’s orchestrated up to now and she’s reduced to nothing but words. Words that cause Vera to look up at her with pity. The ultimate insult.

Taylor sucks in a breath as she takes a step closer to the creature; can’t help himself even though he trusts her. Trusts she knows what she’s doing and believes in the path she’s taking.

So he has to believe in her, too. Their lives depend on it.

“I know the misery it’s brought. And I know I won’t have a hand in it anymore.” On silent command the bloodwraith opens its ghoulish talons held aloft. And with all of her fear and grief and anger put aside Vera lays the dead witch’s token upon them.

The skin fades sickly pale and bloodless veins spread black and ruinous. A horrific sight not unfamiliar — and Taylor knows in a part of him that’s still tied to the grief of Cassiopeia’s misplaced trust that the unknown magics preserving her body in the tomb lift and allow her to finally rest.

Even accepting the reality that there was a tortured soul powering the bloodwraith like Satan’s battery — he still couldn’t think of it as something with thoughts; something beyond a mindless killing entity. Which probably explains the weird feeling that comes with watching the creature as it looks down at the totem with a curiosity that could almost be called human.

Behind it the Elders close even tighter ranks. He’s not entirely certain they shouldn’t be doing the same.

Then, like all living things the wraith crosses, the hand begins to wither. Flesh pulled taut against skeletal fingers before eating away at itself the way maggots do; reveals the muscles underneath and the tissue between bones until those desiccate too. Until all that’s left are pale off-white bones that fall in little _thunk-thunks_ to the dirt at its… levitating burial wrappings.

Uncertainty hangs over their heads crisp and icy, prickles like needles at Taylor’s skin and tries to choke him from the inside with every breath.

_Now what?_

The witches strike first. Try to get the jump on the bloodwraith while its back is still turned with three right hands extended and three burning spheres of fire brought together in Daniels’ power and sent hurtling forward.

Like that’ll make a difference.

The blaze collides against the creature’s spine and even manages to set a few tattered edges of it’s billowing wraps alight. But fire is like all things; needs oxygen to breathe and live. And nothing lives that close to the wraith’s existence. Cassiopeia’s hand proved that.

What would have happened if they’d done nothing; if they had fled, or held their breaths and stayed very still? Would they have been spared? Would Reimonenq’s soul take its newfound freedom and flee beyond the Veil?

It doesn’t matter one way or the other. Because they act — they lash out first. So _technically _there’s nothing against the retaliation coming.

_Maybe if they’d kept Cassiopeia alive she could have banished it before the slaughter._

And it is. 

The ghastly, gleeful grin Taylor swears he can see twisted back upon its lips will haunt him for some time; whether it’s really there or not. 

The bloodwraith makes quick work of the ones who bound it to bone. It may have enjoyed the hunt every other time before but this — this it has been waiting for from the moment it was birthed in blackness and greed. Taking no time to savor their screams. 

Not that the Elders go quietly — each new barrage of magic changes the air pressure and makes Taylor’s eyes swim dizzy and confused. They send spell after spell and chant after chant at the bloodwraith’s face, it’s torso, the space between it and the ground. They try to swallow it up with a tear in reality, send blood from their open veins to slake its thirst; things magic might not even be capable of but are made real in those desperate last moments. 

As if the universe, the forces Beyond, the things that bind The Fate in rules against intervention give the witches all the power their mortal bodies can hold. In the same way a death row inmate is given a feast for his last meal.

The wraith’s tainted touch is too good for them. Keeps them whole, maybe even alive long enough to continue toying with. It can’t have that.

So it plunges through Millet’s abdomen bodily. Cleaves her in two uneven pieces and the rest of her splattered on the stone wall at her back. The viscera is dark, almost black against the bleach-white bones that emerge like a butterfly that could only come from the mind of H.G. Wells.

Vion’s cloudy eyes are plucked from his skull with veins and nerves snapping like taut strings. His mortal mouth isn’t wide enough to fit the wraith’s claw until it is — but only after flashing the onlookers with the bottom half of the smile he never learned how to give. Like scooping stew out of the pot with knives his organs come out mangled, misshapen. 

The smell is awful and Taylor wants to look away but he doesn’t. Forces himself to watch each new torture and indignity those husks are subjected to. Because they are husks now. There’s no way anyone could be alive after that.

Even when he feels Nik’s tension closer than before and a hand inches its way up to the corner of his eye he brushes it aside. “You shouldn’ have to see this,” the Nighthunter whispers. And he’s right. He shouldn’t _have to._

But the Coven Elders only have themselves to blame for that. They were the ones who pulled him into the dark and horrible. “I will anyway;” his equally voiceless reply.

And then there’s Elder Daniels. Made to watch the evisceration and mutilation of her kin. The last witches to fall to The Bloody Hand. That’s her fault, too.

It backs her into the Millet-strewn wall but she does not cower. It rakes talons through her throat her gut her four limbs but she does not scream. It hovers in the air over the pile of her it created but she does not look away — eyes brighter in death than they ever were in life.

The hardest part comes after. Waves of nausea and anguish and the taste of blood at the back of his throat that leave him shaking, crying even though he knows there was no other way — that someone had to die. It takes time but the feelings and all their overwhelming wrath do fade. 

Belatedly he realizes — the last of the Coven Elders, those tiny wisps of purpose and ill, have left this world.

The fallout of them remains.

The bloodwraith hovers there among its finest work. Takes them in maw dripping blood and tissue stained red and reeking of death and righteous revenge — but still, silent as the grave.

Without tether or ruling hand there is nothing left inside its hollow ribs. Its great work is done.

Elric is the first to speak, voice cracked from exhaustion, and Taylor isn’t the only one who jumps slightly at the broken silence.

“We must destroy the creature before its nature overpowers the echoes of its former self.” Not that he has to tell anyone twice. 

“Think it’ll sit still long enough fer us to put it through a woodchipper?” Kristof isn’t joking.

But Elric shakes his head; doesn’t humor even outlandish ideas. “I… do not know.”

Katherine favors her left side as she hobbles close enough for Ryder to prop her up. “We could pursue another necromancer — but the odds of one being close enough to get here in time…”

“An’ I definitely don’ have enough arrows to banish it to the Veil.”

“So we’re fucked?”

“Every passing moment deteriorates its complacency. It will go rabid.”

“If we had the totem —”

“— the Elders would still be alive, so stop lookin’ at me like that mother.”

Through the din of arguments and ideas tossed forward and debunked Taylor sees their guest again. Watches as The Fate holds his gaze then looks out, slow and with purpose. Over the grass and gravel stained black that now shines like glass under the revealing moonlight. 

The stars shine much the same but the trails left by Elric and Garrus’ valiant effort in cornering the witches are a different beauty. Something ethereal and as bright as it is dark. Scorched trails of obsidian creating beauty in destruction.

With all the weird and cryptic help they keep giving, he’s gonna need to get The Fate a fruit basket delivered or something.

“Do you have enough strength to do it one more time?”

Elric looks at him with a furrowed confusion — takes a moment to understand before he withers further. “I worry not even Garrus’ aid will be enough to burn the beast. Not alone.”

Taylor’s heart sinks, but Nik catches it before it gets too low.

“So help ‘em out, Rook.”

_“Me?”_

“You did it before.”

“Yeah but not on purpose.”

“So get Elric to channel it to you again.”

Then his father is at his side with pale palm turned up in offering. “You are not the same person you were then. You may not need my help.”

Everyone’s stopped arguing now; listening intently. Talk about stage fright. 

“Yeah I — I don’t think so. The other fae, the ones inside…”

“Not all of us have the touch to do such wonders.”

And isn’t that just _great._ “Obviously. Why would it ever be easy?”

He throws a look to Garrus, still half-caught in Krom’s arms though looking far less on the verge of unconsciousness. Not that Krom worries over him any less. They catch him looking and their smiles are matched; happy, relieved, sheepish. Makes Taylor have the just-barely resistible urge to shake his head and say _“those crazy kids.”_

What’s the use arguing at this point?

“Okay. I mean — however I can help.”

Of course the stone troll is reluctant to let Garrus go, takes more than a fair bit of coaxing from Ivy but he does. “I haven’t stretched these muscles in a century,” comes the anticipated complaint, “and now you have me conjuring twice in one evening?” But Garrus doesn’t hesitate as he takes his position back up.

Elric directs Taylor nearest Isadora; doesn’t argue when Nik follows like an extension of him.

“I’ll be okay.” Not that he doesn’t appreciate the support.

“I know —” then, after a beat, “— still. Don’t have to leave you, so I won’t.”

A hush falls with the fae men in their positions. The outcast, the Lord, and the halfling in a triangle around the dormant wraith.

He knows he shouldn’t but that’s never stopped Taylor before. Cautiously reaches out with that feeling inside and tries, more out of curiosity than anything, to search for anything that remains of Reimonenq within its cursed bones.

But he’s just met with a void. Blacker than black — no revenge, no vendetta to carry out; nothing at all. 

So he pulls it back… and feels the faint whisper of death like velvet on his cheek.

It’s as ready as they are for all this to be done with.

Not that he was expecting a lesson on a chalkboard or anything — _Conjuring Grimfire 101_ — but there’s a distinct lack of _any _kind of instruction that leaves Taylor more than a little lacking. Has him looking back and forth to mirror the men in everything he can see.

One minute the uncertainty is there; building inside of him a threatening mass of the unknown — and then it isn’t.

It’s just gone. 

Whatever takes its place—not confidence, not quite—is enough, somehow. He knows it’s enough.

Looking down Taylor isn’t surprised to see wisps of black flame licking at his palms. Both enveloped and not, but not a burn in sight and so so beautiful.

It doesn’t take much. Barely even a gesture but moreso the power to _let _the grimflames take to the world beyond him.

Taylor, Garrus, Elric — they aren’t three people and three flames anymore. They’re one in the same; send their combined will forward. Rushing, racing on still winds lapping and hissing at one another until they seek home in the only thing they can.

A column of midnight fire erupts towards the sky as the bloodwraith is consumed. The last of its flesh, the tendrils of cloth, the thrice-burned bones engulfed in a fire that bathes the entire garden in light.

Taylor prepares himself — muscle memory — for a stinging wave of heat that never comes. And the sight is as captivating as it is terrible, as magical as it is destructive. Colors without names taking the wraith’s shape within the black — aberrant and awe-some.

Higher and higher the grimfire clamors for the abyss; seeks home in a darkness just as endless. The colors within grow to a blinding brightness as, within, the creature is devoured.

The Council of New Orleans watches as one. Blooded and bruised and _alive._ Shadows of light in lashes across every face like a ritual of cleansing.

Cadence shoulders the combined weights of Kathy and Cal; holds them up with tears in his eyes.

As Kristof watches, jaw slack, Octavia lumbers up to him with blood-matted fur and noses at his palm, turns a golden gaze up to the place where the fire and the heavens meet. Even Isadora finds herself held captive by the sight.

Vera’s hands cup her elbows, the glowing shadows catching on her curls and every teardrop that collects at her chin. Behind her Tonya stands shrouded in the dark of her daughter’s figure. The only one focused on something else.

But it makes sense. Don’t ask him how but it does. It isn’t just the bloodwraith that is forced to make peace in the fae fire’s glow. It shines on all of them and chases away every shadow left in the chambers of their hearts. Leaves within Taylor a feeling of profound peace; of understanding.

From tip to temple the remnants of the bloodwraith scatter upwards, rainbow embers scattering to every corner of the city — further even.

Upturned palms slowly close with curled-in fingers; Garrus, then Elric. Elric who looks at his son with pride to which nothing can compare. Taylor almost doesn’t want to let it go. Wants to let it build and stay in this beautiful monument to everything… _everything._

Instead he closes his hands and snuffs out the light. 

The curtains close.

* * *

Cade pulls away gasping; covers his mouth with the back of his hand with something akin to shame burned into his red eyes. Katherine gives him time; lets the vampire come back to himself with her bare arm still offered; just in case.

It isn’t lost on Taylor — or anyone, really — that the huntress was content to push half a wine glass of her blood towards Isadora de la Rosa. That the vein was a luxury only Cadence was allowed.

Cadence who holds her arm gingerly as he smears blood from his nicked thumb along the skin and lets it heal.

All around them the _Mardi Gras_ decorations still shimmer with delight. Enticing them to forget their worries and relax; to enjoy themselves in a way they might finally be allowed, now. But the night isn’t done yet. Neither are they, no matter how much they might wish otherwise.

Two ashtrays pass between hands. Inside; a thin layer of blood shared among them like a church sacrament. The unspoken rule — take just enough to heal your wounds, because the likelihood that either vampire was willing to part with more than they could afford was slim.

And he cares about the rest of his friends — he does. He’s glad to see the bruises fading from Kathy’s ribs where her shirt is hitched up; to see Cal testing the motion of his arm where Octavia had helped relocate his shoulder. He’s glad — yet it doesn’t stop him from devoting the majority of his attention to Nik.

“No physical signs of a concussion,” mumbles Cade through his careful examination of the man’s pupils; flashes the mini-light from Taylor’s keys between them just in case, “and as any possible wounds would be internal there isn’t much my blood can do that it wouldn’t have done already.”

But Ryder will only humor them for so long. The frustration is already starting to tick in his brow. “Cool, then will you lay off?”

“Nik —”

“I’m _fine _Rook, see?” He gestures with arms spread wide and _what is that supposed to prove?_ Can anyone blame him for worrying? Would anyone _dare to try?_

No, not like this. Not when the events of the night still hang over those gathered like an anvil on a very thin rope. Only when it drops it won’t be for comedic effect.

All they need is someone to cut the cord.

Good thing Nik Ryder has never been one to sugarcoat anything. Or hold his tongue for that matter.

“They weren’t wrong, you know, the Coven Elders.”

Which is so the wrong thing to say and gets a couple hundred pounds of angry sweaty werewolf in his face, growling; _“The fuck’d you just say, Ryder?”_

Even Isadora’s disapproval isn’t so easily contained. “Poor taste, Nighthunter.”

But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t waver. Looks Kristof square in the eyes with a matching frown and a set jaw.

“You could ignore it before, but you sure can’t now. Things around here have gotten way outta hand. Each one’a you only cared about what was right under your noses. I ain’t sayin’ they went about it the right way but to walk outta here with nothing changed would be almost just as bad.”

That he doesn’t end up with a broken jaw is surprising on its own. When Kristof actually _steps back_ as if to _listen?_ Well Hell went straight from frozen over to a winter wonderland.

“Continue,” prompts Elric then, since no one else is willing to offer the floor to him. Why would they? Who wants to be told everything they’ve done wrong? Especially when it leads to… well.

“I didn’ think about the state of things until I saw what was goin’ on inside Persephone. Told myself it wasn’t any of my business —”

“— which it is not,” Tonya interrupts, and meets the glare Vera snaps at her with a hard set to her jaw. “Nighthunters have always been a complicated party. No allegiances, no code of conduct but their own. And now this one wishes to dictate to us all of the things we are at fault for as though he stands on some sort of higher ground?”

Vera just shakes her head, dislike rotting into distaste on her tongue.

“Unbelievable. You still don’t think you have _any _blame to take in any of this.”

“Do you have any idea what I’ve done to keep this city safe?”

“Oh I’m well aware, _mother,”_ the words lash out on the tip of her tongue; make Tonya recoil however slight. “In fact — that, that right there — that’s half the problem here! That’s exactly what Ryder’s talking about. You stand there actin’ like a martyr when all you’ve done—all you’ve _really _done—is bully, bribe, and threaten your way into power. How long do you think it’ll keep now?”

She’s no longer the woman who went running at the smallest sign of danger. It’s a thing to behold, really.

And Vera isn’t the only one. Even with all of his huffing and puffing Cal steps up and looks Kristof square in the eyes. There’s a set to his jaw and his eye is still a little purple but hell if he’s backing down now.

“Now don’t you go makin’ trouble for yerself, pup,” his kin warns, but what else could he possibly lose that he hasn’t already?

“Anyone who disagrees with you _makes trouble.”_

“Yeah, _and?”_

The younger wolf’s joints pop and crack as he cranes his neck from side to side. Both of them rearing to go even after everything. 

“That’s no way to lead a pack.”

Kristof snorts through a cherry-red face. “An’ I take it you’ve got a lotta thoughts you been holdin’ in.”

“You could say that.”

“Until you’re an Alpha I don’t think you’ve got much of a say.”

“He may not, but I’ve a few thoughts, _cher.”_

There’s a very _Et tu, Brute?_ vibe in how Octavia places herself in the familiar space between the argument. Back then and here in the now Octavia remains a voice of reason to compensate for the one her Alpha just doesn’t seem to have been born with.

His nostrils flare. “Tavvy…”

“I ain’t sayin’ the pup’s right, but you an’ I both know he’s got a point. Things have been _good _for us, Kristof. Good for the pack.”

“Yeah, why the hell d’you think that is?!”

“I’m not sayin’ you ain’t sacrificed to keep us goin’. An’ I’ve backed you up on every single thing to date. But Kristof Jensen so help me if you raise your voice at me again I will whoop your furry behind to kingdom come and that’s a promise.”

The Alpha and his Beta square off, eye to eye. She commands the space around her despite behind several heads shorter than him. Being part of a pack means something deeper than most can understand and it radiates out from them in viscous tension.

He’s an Alpha; he _can’t _back down. But she’s his partner — so she _won’t._

And Cal, who can’t tell if he has the other wolf on _his _side or just _not on Kristof’s,_ refuses to let himself be pushed out of the conversation.

“Uncle,” one word that snaps all attention back to him, “you picked up the pack when we needed it most. You know they’re grateful — you know _I’m grateful —”_ and there’s something hidden unspoken in Cal’s words, something from before all this but can’t be held back any longer, “— you were the Alpha they needed when I couldn’t be.

“But the pack can’t be more important than the community it’s part of. You can’t pull away from the rest of New Orleans and call it keeping everyone safe. Not when it leads to shit like this.”

There’s so many emotions and reactions twisting on the Alpha’s scarred face; Taylor doesn’t even attempt to reach out to feel them for fear of empathy whiplash.

So he’s just as surprised as everyone — Cal and Octavia included — when the wolf deflates; sags his shoulders and reaches out for the Beta to find a home crooked under the weight of his arm.

“Now ain’t the time to get into the nitty-gritty.”

Before Cal can object, Octavia squares him away with a single glance. _Maybe not now, but soon._ And that’s more than before, so he’ll take it.

To everyone’s surprise Isadora steps forward with a steely eye. 

“My father was no saint. Since inheriting his seat and estate I have come upon a number of… gruesome things; things he was content to keep from me, and no doubt from the rest of the Council.”

If anyone notices the way her eyes flick to Cadence, they don’t mention it. “But I think that is the point Ryder makes; we, this Council, are supposed to be the ones making decisions for the betterment of this proud city. Instead we have burrowed our heads in the sand, contented ourselves with turning a blind eye to one another’s wrongdoings lest our own come to light.

“We cannot continue like this. The Council will not survive it. _New Orleans_ will not survive it.”

Murmurs of agreement echo throughout the foyer; Elric stands.

“We are tired; we are battle-worn. Yet we have ignored our obligations to the city for long enough I think. If we are to be the ones to bring about a positive change then the time to act is now.”

_“Now?”_ asks Tonya in protest, “don’t you think we should postpone this — at least until _Mardi Gras_ has settled?”

Nik drags two stools forward. Taylor takes the hint and he isn’t the only one — Krom and Ivy join him in grabbing chairs and other seats until everyone has a place to get comfortable.

“No time like the present.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As with _Destiny_ next week will be both the final chapter and the epilogue posted shortly after. I’m also thinking of including another ‘final thoughts’ post link, just to explain some of the changes and how this fic has changed from outlining to realization! 
> 
> As ever, comments and critique would be fabulous. I’m really eager to know what you guys thought about this book! Thank you for reading!


	23. Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** mentions of major character death (brief)

They make sure the first thing Kristin sees when she opens her eyes is the pair of them on either side of her hospital bed. Both of her hands in theirs and they’re so close to being able to hold back the tears in their eyes.  


But when she licks her dry lips and looks them both over with groggy delirium, only to say “I think I’m over _Mardi Gras,_ guys,” they’re her first words in a week that’s felt like an entire year and how could they do anything but ugly cry as loud and messy and _utterly ridiculous_ as they possibly can.

“Now don’t go marryin’ that idea, Cookie,” Vera blubbers; wipes her thumbs carefully to preserve her wing-tip, “‘specially when you see the place our friend’s got hooked up with.”

“Nope, I’m sticking to water.”

Taylor snorts with a fond roll of his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

And even though they know for a fact she’ll make a full recovery she was found in a cemetery—at night—and her coma lasted several days; so Taylor and Vera don’t make much of a fuss when the doctor kicks them out. She makes them promise to come back as soon as they can, which of course they do.

They’re waiting to the elevator when a melodic humming catches Taylor’s ears; _he knows that voice. _

Sure enough Tilly strolls around the corner, pushing a cart with a squeaking back wheel in front of her without so much as a touch. Her hands have better things to do — like spoon a healthy heap of strawberry jello into her mouth.

The cart doesn’t even slow when their paths cross but the elf doesn’t let that stop her from grabbing two jiggling cups and _plop-plopping_ them into Vera’s hands. A wink and twitch of her nose and she’s off around another corner as though she was never there.

Vera stares down at the jello in wordless confusion. Before she can say anything the lift arrives and doors slide open. 

“I’ll explain on the way,” Taylor promises, plucks his gifted jello cup and presses the button for the ground floor. 

They leave the hospital full of jello and laughter. Which was probably the elf’s intention.

Two blocks away from the _Graveyard Shift_ Taylor stops them; puts a gentle hand on Vera’s upper arm and moving them out of the way of tourists still loitering around the Quarter in waves.

Judging by the fall of her face Vera’s been expecting this — and it’s not a conversation he’s excited about either but ignoring unseemly topics is something that hits a little too close to home these days.

“Have you decided what you’re gonna do?”

“Been a little busy, Tay.” Easygoing tone now clipped; curt. Almost cold but he knows it’s not her. “We shouldn’t keep everyone waitin’.”

“I think they’ll understand.”

“Okay — I tried t’be nice but I guess I just gotta be blunt. I don’t want to talk about it.”

His silence is long enough to wedge a bolt in her defense — has Vera peering up through her curls where he waits patiently. Which only frustrates her further. “You’re annoying sometimes, you know that Taylor Hunter?”

He shrugs — she’s not wrong. “Nik makes sure I don’t forget.”

Silence, and more silence, and a few attempts to weasel around him and continue down the sidewalk that end in a childish bout of fake-out standoffs; then she finally accepts defeat.

“I wanna stay, really I do. But I moved away to distance myself from this—this _life._ And if I stay then what have the past couple’a years of my life _been _for then, you know?”

He knows, and nods; she continues, “My biggest thing is… I don’t know who my momma is without the Touch; without bein’ _Lady Smoke._ Hell I’m not even sure _she knows._ You should see how she’s been actin’ Taylor; three whole days later and she’s back in her office actin’ like nothing has changed.

“But it has. And sooner or later word’ll get out what happened to her an’ that she doesn’t have the same leverage as she used to.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth; she’s been doing that a lot recently. “It’d be nice to think about her givin’ it all up but I know she won’t. What if she turns to somethin’ equally terrible or worse to keep people fearin’ her?”

There’s a light to her eyes that wasn’t there before; maybe even Vera didn’t know how much Vera needed to vent the things weighing her down. And Taylor? Well he empathizes; literally. Her worries are his worries. Her concern is his concern.

And because she knows in her heart of hearts that Tonya Reimonenq is not only capable but _likely _to try and regain any echo of the power the bloodwraith took from her — _by any means necessary_ — he knows it too.

Taylor wishes he had certainties for her. That he can give her the definitive _this is what will happen and this is how we’ll deal with it_ of the matter. But he can’t.

“No matter what she does, the New Accords will keep her in line.”

The look she gives him; _will they though?_ isn't by any fault of hers. In fact it’s Vera’s healthy caution that’s helped them all this way so far so he trusts it as much as anything else. 

“Don’t stay because you want to keep an eye on Tonya. You’ve got Nik and me for that.” He links their arms, doesn’t miss her little breath of relief when they continue walking. 

“Stay because _you _want to. I’d sure love it if you did.”

“I’ll give it a real thought, okay?”

“I could ask for nothing more.”

* * *

They enter the _Shift _together and everything is the same — everyone is exactly as the pair left them. That isn’t a good thing.

“Raise your voice at me again, go on.”

“Kathy will you _stop goadin’ the werewolf?”_

“You’ve got one last chance Jensen.”

“Guys, please slow down. ‘Taking minutes’ was made for typing and I don’t have another pen.”

“Oh hon’, you don’t need to get the arguments in the minutes.”

Krom flashes a sheepish smile through his tusks at Garrus from across the booth. The bartender is content to keep his distance from the arguing going down in his establishment but he stays because that’s what he agreed to.

Though judging by the bottle of teal-tinted absinthe he’s nearly polished off that might be something of a regret on his part.

Cal leans back in the booth with both hands over his face — probably with the same frustration Nik doesn’t even try to cover up beside him. 

“This is useless…”

Across from him Kristof smacks his lips, beer in hand, and nods to his nephew. “First thing we’ve agreed on all day, pup.” And when he makes like he’s about to pull himself away from the uncomfortable situation Katherine snatches at his wrist. Her grip looks practically _dainty _against the muscle of him but every single soul in the bar knows it to be anything but.

“Sit the fuck back _down,_ Jensen.”

“Nah, I’m done with this shit fer th’day.”

_Pull your weight and help me,_ says the look Katherine snaps at Ryder. 

Who leans forward on his elbows with fingers steepled and a hard glare given to the Alpha at the other end of the table.

“If you leave now we just have to start from scratch tomorrow. Do you _really _want to drag this out?”

Cal groans and continues his useless attempt to become one with his leather seat. He’s just as frustrated as his fellow wolf but Krom’s got him walled in; no chance of escape.

But the thought of having to repeat the ordeal is, luckily(?), terrible enough that the wood of the seat creaks to accommodate the Alpha as he settles back in.

“Fine. But come sunset I’m outta here; I got shit t’do.”

Katherine agrees with a nod. “It won’t take that long.”

“The Lamrians didn’t take this long,” mutters Nik under his breath; and its only then that he looks up enough to see Taylor and Vera’s combined amusement where they’ve been watching everything unfold like a governmental pantomime.

“Gettin’ your kicks over there?”

“Absolutely.”

Vera gives a silent touch to his arm — had mentioned before they left that she’d need to make a few work calls at some point today for the sake of both her job _and _Kristin’s. While she heads up to the _Shift’s_ apartments Taylor drags a stool over to join the fray of frustration.

Does Kristof still make the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end? Yes. Does he look over at that bearded frown and think of the large jaw of canine teeth that could very easily tear him to shreds? Yes.

Does the way he has his arms crossed over his chest, red faced and muttering something under his breath, make him look like a kid angry at not getting his way?

Yes.

In fact the wolf actually seems to _lean away_ from him when Taylor makes himself comfortable; beady eyes trained wary on his hands. 

“Something to say?” Katherine only asks because she isn’t wholly unconvinced his attitude isn’t just another tactic for distraction.

“Just keep them flashy fae fingers to yer’self an’ we’re peachy.”

Can anyone blame him when he wiggles his _perfectly normal_ (thank you very much) fingers in Kristof’s direction, then? No, no they cannot.

Krom offers up the long scroll of parchment for him to take — already half-full with the agreed-upon duties, limitations, and expectations of the Quarter’s new Council members.

Being the largest population in city limits by a wide margin, the Mayor’s neatly scrawled signature is the only one beside rules not of his own design. Sure it had been for the best that they not involve anyone who didn’t need to be (and in the Lady de la Rosa’s well-put words, it was smart “not to demand action over one with such influence over the innocent and ignorant”), but that didn’t mean they were met with open arms at City Hall.

In fact, Taylor ended up having to get Elric to come down and ‘lay down the law’ with the man. Perks of having an immortal father who had been to every Mayoral inauguration since the city’s founding.

Seeing as the Mayor (and the humans by default) had _literally _the least amount of things to worry about, too? He was kind of a dick about it.

Below that were the duties of the faire folk of Lamrian and their Lord Elric and Lady Thalissa.

Lady Thalissa who had _not _been happy to see Taylor again — but who had also been under the assumption that he had been the one to involve Elric in the events of _Mardi Gras._ Once they cleared that up (read: once Elric had confessed to leaving Lamrian of his own free will and sort of… falling into everything after) she was rather warm and friendly; even offered to help her (step?) son learn how to better control the magic within.

And of course there was a separate clause specifically for Garrus underneath; who was far too pleased to be considered his own separate sub-category.

The Jensen Pack is up next on the ‘Get Everyone to Agree’ List and following itinerary that had been drawn up by the weary survivors of the Beau-Keyes Garden. But getting Jensen himself and his nephew—who as it turns out is some kind of were-royalty on his mother’s side and if Cal thinks they aren’t going to be talking about _that _at the first opportunity he’s sorely mistaken—to agree on anything is about as difficult as… well anything else they’ve done so far.

So he has a little hope at least.

“So what’s the biggest argument so far?” He asks finally; gives the parchment back to Krom to roll up for safe-keeping. He’s fallen in love with his new unofficial title as Council Scribe. They’re gonna need to buy ballpoint pens in bulk though.

Nik’s smile drips saccharine and laden with spite. “Dividin’ of authority.”

“It just ain’t natural!” Kristof resumes like someone pressed ‘play,’ “The Alpha doesn’ answer to nobody, that’s jus’ how it is. Here or in any pack you’re gonna run foul of.”

To everyone’s surprise Cal actually agrees; “It’s more of a biological thing than a code or rule. You get more than one Alpha in a room and someone’s gonna come out on top; that’s just the animal kingdom.” Then, with an obvious reluctance; “And I’m no Alpha. It’s a born thing. That’s why Kristof took over pack duties in the first place.”

Taylor looks between them. “What about Octavia?”

“Beta’s beneath my authority, but if there’s any hint’a disagreement it can get ugly.”

“Well that sounds like bull. I’ve seen her disagree with you… pretty much every time you’ve been in the same room.”

The were scratches his chin; averts his eyes with a huff. “That ain’t a pack thing. That’s a… _us _thing.”

Subtlety wasn’t even an _attempt _on Nik’s part — his hand coming up in a suggestive and hard-to-misinterpret squeezing motion. Thankfully Kristof only growls, but Taylor sees the mischief in the hunter’s eyes and knows it could have been way worse. _It could have been dog-related._

“Okay; well right there you have something that goes against the norm’, right? Why can’t other things? Start off small… build up to an equal foothold in the pack.”

“I’m not returnin’ to the pack, Taylor.”

Their reactions are telling; that Kristof is the only one unsurprised by Cal’s insistence means he knew (and yet he’s still being an ass?) about his nephew’s choice to stay a lone wolf.

Not that it does anything for privacy but Taylor can’t help lowering his voice when he asks; “Are you… are you sure?”

“Sure as salt.”

“But what about Donny?”

“Donny’ll be fine. We already talked it out —”

_“‘We’_ who, who is _‘we?’”_ And the simmering pot of Katherine starts to boil. “Not you two _‘we,’_ because that — that would be crazy. That would mean you two came to an agreement on something.”

But Cal just shrugs and nods — doesn’t see the danger quite yet. 

“Yeah, _‘us two,’_ we. Kristof’s an asshole but he’s a brother, too. Always will be.” Which is a statement that goes undisputed; the opposite actually — judging by the noise of agreement. “I get t’see him whenever, an’ even talked him into letting me back home for important stuff; holidays, y’know?”

“And what do _you _get out of this?” Katherine can’t help but ask. Kristof shrugs it off.

“I can’t go ‘round backin’ up on my word — ‘specially not punishments an’ the like. Opens the pack up to weakness and loners who ain’t so kind comin’ ‘round sniffin’ fer trouble. Ain’t that right pup?”

“Exactly. So we both like the idea of me pullin’ a neutral-party sorta deal. Keepin’ an eye on the city and territory and, on the off-chance, helpin’ out any stray weres. If any packs come down this way they’ll be Kristof’s problem. It’s a good arrangement… I’ll be the Garrus of the wolves.”

Heads turn as there’s an odd noise from the direction of the bar — pink tickling at Garrus’ cheeks as he looks Cal over with amusement. 

“You wish you could be me, little wolf. No one’s _me _but me, myself, and I.”

“I jus’ mean —”

“Re_lax,_ darling. I know exactly what you meant, I just had to say it.”

From her point on the U-bend of the booth Katherine gives a shaky exhale. Pinches the bridge of her nose and mouths her way up to seventeen in silence before she can breathe without yelling at someone.

“So what you’re telling me is that you _can _compromise and agree on things… you’re just actively _choosing _to argue about the official Council bullshit.”

“Yeah, sounds ‘bout right.”

“Can’t agree with th’pup too much — he’ll get an ego.”

A long silence. Then…

“I hate both of you.”

* * *

When Octavia comes around at sunset she isn’t alone. Donny runs into his brother’s arms, because by now everyone in town knows at least some version of the truth of what went down at the Beau-Keyes House that night, and he’s that distinct mixture of angry-happy that only comes with being family.

And being family to someone so chaotically dumb that it sometimes all works out in the end, at that.

Speaking of — Taylor needs to call his mom soon. He should write that down or something.

Cal’s so excited to see his little brother again that he forgets to say goodbye. Not that they’ll hold it against him. Who wouldn’t need a drink and greasy bar food to unwind after spending all day yelling and being yelled at?

Katherine tugs on her leather jacket; takes the poster tube acting as safehouse for the new Council Accords and slings the strap across her chest.

“You’re not staying?” asks Taylor in surprise; she’s just been so _around _the last couple of days that it’s weird to see her heading out.

“No rest for the wicked,” though he doesn’t miss the little quirk of her smile as she says it, “but really — sun’s down so the vamps are out, and we still need de la Rosa’s terms and agreements.”

“Will Cade be there?” Though he feels stupid for asking and already knows the answer.

She humors him though. “Yeah. From the looks of it we’ll need to work in the same exception clauses for him that we have for Cal and Garrus, if not something like it.”

“Seems like we’re making a lot of those.”

“Seems like maybe we need them.”

Katherine throws an expectant look over his shoulder; Taylor turns to see Krom holding up an apologetic stone in the midst of being dragged to the back by a very eager Garrus. “You’ve got ten minutes!” She calls, and means it.

With Nik upstairs and the curtain closing behind the eager new couple that leaves Taylor and her alone for what might very well be the first time.

He’s not talked to Katherine much — not one-on-one. Makes an awkwardness hang weird between them, tilted too far to one side and sending the whole room just slightly off.

But he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t hoped for at least a small opportunity to talk to her without nosy interruption.

“Hey, if you have a sec —”

“Have you seen them since?” Apparently he wasn’t the only one eager to take advantage of their free moment.

Maybe it’s a trick of the dim bar lighting but Katherine almost looks disappointed when he shakes his head. “The last time was on _Mardi Gras._ They were watching the whole time, though.”

“The Fate is always watching. They’re bound to witness.”

_Yeah, I remember._ “You never explained… how you knew. Back at the Coven house.”

Which was on purpose if the look she gives is anything to go by. Has her ruffling her fingers through long plum waves — working out little knots like a nervous habit. 

“You’re right.”

“You don’t have to — I mean yeah I’ve been dying to ask but you don’t _have _to say anything if you don’t want to, Kathy.”

The nickname draws her attention, makes her look him in the eye with a weight of importance. “It’s just complicated, that’s all.”

And he wants to push the issue, literally feels it crawling up his throat itchy and large enough to choke on. But he also understands how hard it is to talk about something before you’re ready. Like, more than most.

How many minutes has it been now? A question she’s gotta be wondering too; she keeps looking behind him hoping for a large stone interruption. 

“You know Ryder’s from around here?”

Taylor blinks. “I mean, I figured… he sounds pretty local.”

“And I don’t.”

“No.”

“Because I’m not,” a beat, “but this isn’t my first time in town. No that… that was a couple of years back. I came here for one reason—one person.”

_Ah, got it._ “The Fate.”

“Usually they don’t get themselves tangled up in stuff like this, you know? They just watch. So when you need to get in touch with them, there are certain rites and rituals to follow.” Katherine’s eyes grow wistful, she snorts; “Be glad we didn’t have to get involved in that nasty business. I’m in no rush to jump those hoops again.”

_Again?_ “So… what did they say?” What he really wants to ask is _what did you see them for_ but he doesn’t, they don’t know one another well enough for that. Maybe some day.

“We never spoke. I backed out right at the edge. I mean I don’t regret it; that night I ended up finding this place, getting in on the hunter crowd, meeting Ryder — actually maybe I regret that bit.”

She doesn’t, not at all. He can tell. “That night, too, was the card game I won Cadence’s job in.”

“Which worked out for you.”

“Ha, depends on who you ask.” She hikes the strap higher on her shoulder, continues tugging at her hair. “That’s not — there’s a point to this I promise. Because The Fate doesn’t exist in this world. They can’t, physically; they’re beyond us. So in order to get to them you have to…”

“You have to leave this world.”

It dawns on him then, what she’s getting at. And she knows _he knows_ because there’s the barest hint of pity behind her guarded gaze. Knows it’s not a vulnerability she allows herself often.

Maybe this whole time he knew. Somewhere deep down, anyway. In the same place where The Fate had hidden the attack at the theatre.

_Let me do you this kindness._

“I… I _died _that night, then.”

“I think so, yes.”

The surprising part is how _not painfully difficult_ that is to process as a fact; a statement instead of a question instead of an ultimatum of martyrdom. He’s finding it more difficult to imagine what to say to Nik because no doubt the hunter would find a way to try and blame himself about it.

Then again… Nik very well could have died in the Garden that night. But surely even the fae couldn’t bring people back from the dead. Surely only someone with power like The Fate had that capability.

_Surely._

Taylor doesn’t quite know _where _he went but when he comes back the look Katherine gives him isn’t reassuring in the slightest. Like she’s ready for him to collapse, shaking, the existential crisis delayed up until right at this very moment with only a half-stranger to comfort him.

“Are you going to be okay?”

Which isn’t a hard question to answer in the least. “Yeah. I mean if something was gonna happen it probably would have by now, right?”

“Jeez, way to jinx yourself.”

“Hey I never said I was the brightest bulb in the pack.”

_“Ain’t that right.”_

Whatever time they had been allotted by the universe to bring those revelations to light is up. Ryder rounds the staircase down, heavy boots with heavier steps on the creaking metal. And he’s one foot on the floor when the back curtain draws back to reveal Garrus buttoning his waistcoat back up whole Krom hastily tugs on his tee.

Tactless Ryder whistles at the pair; makes Kathy roll her eyes and mutter an insult under her breath, along with; “Pretty sure that’s a couple dozen health code violations, Gar.’”

“I have my own health code.”

“Pretty sure _something _was violated back there.” 

Which is such a terrible innuendo and so terribly _typical _of Nik that when he goes to pull Taylor into his space by the hip he makes a show of active resistance — a protest statement that says _that kind of terrible pun-making is simply not allowed._

Though it’s not as bad as the one that comes to mind at Krom’s stony expression. 

The troll looks like he wants to crawl under a rock.

Taylor surrenders eventually. Allows himself to be pulled in close where he can rest his chin on the man’s duster.

“You two crazy kids sticking around?”

Back behind the bar Garrus is already back at work with bottles in hand. Easily recognizable now as the ingredients for Ivy’s favorite bubbly brew; and she should be back soon, shouldn’t she? How long can an exorcism take, even on a house as large as 937 Prytania Street?

Taylor shrugs. “I guess. _Midsummer _is canceled while the theatre is being fixed back up so I’m…” _Gonna be broke soon,_ is what he is. Something to worry about at a later date.

But the look Nik gives him — there’s something else on the Nighthunter’s mind.

“Up for a little adventure?” Which is a proposition that Taylor should very much turn down were he any kind of sane person, especially given everything they’ve been through this week.

But… _What the hell, sanity’s overrated._

* * *

The cemetery was supposed to be roped off or something. Reasonably it should have been. But god forbid the city take down one of their biggest tourist attractions; all the dead bodies. 

“You know, I thought you meant—like—apps and sodas at a bar or something.”

Because sure, there are people who might find walking hand-in-hand in a supposedly haunted cemetery in the last waning streaks of the sherbet evening to be romantic.

Taylor just isn’t one of them.

There’s that familiar tick in the man’s scarred brow looking down at him. Not that it makes everything _better_… but it definitely doesn’t hurt.

“All the weird shit we’ve done by now and you thought _‘adventure’_ was code for— what, a vanilla dinner date?”

“Oh, so this is a date huh?”

“I would’a thought that was obvious.”

“Nik Ryder — _nothing _about you is obvious.”

And that fact isn’t contested — isn’t worth being contested because they both know better. But for some reason Taylor’s chest feels a little bit lighter when he breathes again. Purely metaphorically, though, as he has to borrow his hand back for a second to adjust where his binder rides up uncomfortably in the humidity.

It’s kind of weirdly beautiful the way Nik’s hand is still held out a little from his side — waiting to be taken back up. He doesn’t let it wait long.

Okay, maybe he’s a little wrong. Maybe there’s one thing about the Nighthunter that’s obvious; but he has a sneaking suspicion it’s only that way because Nik lets it be.

_Obviously _this thing, them — without words or long discussion over candles and spaghetti or passionate clinging kisses in the rain or anything else years of rom-com consumption have said define a relationship — isn’t going away.

It’s like everything else they do; an impulse, a behavior felt in the gut. No filter, no holding back.

They walk the paths and rows of Lafayette and talk. A comment or question here and there; half the time they’re so focused on trying not to interrupt one another they end up walking around and around in silence. Normally for him silence is an awkward thing; silence has almost always meant something that has been said or needs to be said hangs a heavy burden. Not this time. And, if he dares to believe it, maybe not for a long time coming.

On their fifth (or is it sixth?) go-around they come to a natural stop. Nik’s head tilted up to watch the night clear over their heads — and Taylor just watches him with awe; with joy.

“Hey, Taylor?”

_His name,_ so it must be important. “Yeah Nik?”

“Thanks for savin’ my life.”

“Any time.”

Two words that make the man stop; turn to look at him fully. Something swimming in his eyes all weird and misty but still, somehow, kinda beautiful.

“You mean that, don’t you.” The way Nik says it — it definitely isn’t a question more than it is a fact he’s always known but never been able to put into words. Like knowing the sky is blue, or that there’s more to the world around them than anyone could possibly imagine.

Taylor nods. “Of course.” _Obviously, how could you ever think I’d do anything less? That I wouldn’t do more?_

Then clammy hands are on his cheeks and Taylor lets himself be pulled into the kiss. Lets it come to them both as naturally as breathing and just as necessary. 

Just like the last time — though under vastly different circumstances — he’s shaking tip to toe when they break. _Surely there’s gotta be some supernatural way to make it so they need to kiss more than they need air._ He should get on that.

He’d been asked on _‘a little adventure’_ but it makes sense now that in true Ryder-fashion he had been vague on purpose. One of those ‘the adventure was inside us all along’ sorta deals. Which would have been preferable to nearly dying numerous times, apparently actually dying once, dealing with shady goblins and supernatural mobsters and finding out he wasn’t entirely human at all… right? Right. Totally right. Even if he ended up finding the father he never knew and piecing together a ragtag ‘found family’ trope and—if he was reading all of the signs correctly—getting a smokin’ hot boyfriend out of it all.

At some point probably they’ll be pulled apart. A patrol officer could catch them, here out in the open as they are, and threaten to remove them from cemetery grounds. A ghoul could arise from the ground between them intent on wreaking havoc in their now peaceful (however temporary) city. Or maybe some long-slumbering kraken will awake from the depths of the Mississippi and start eating hungover tourists.

Yeah, at some point they’ll probably be pulled apart. 

But that’s okay.

They’ve faced worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a rocky road for a bit there but it finally happened, _the end_ to Circumstance. Different than the canon Nightbound for sure but hopefully that’s a good thing. I’m really interested in knowing what readers thought about those changes and others, so please; comments and critique would be just the best part of my day.
> 
> As with book 1, the epilogue will be posted later today. Thank you for reading, I’ve enjoyed Taylor and his adventures immensely.


	24. Better the Devil You Don’t (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone does right by Cadence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **chapter content warnings:** none

_A few weeks later…_   


[TEXT]: hurry up  
[TEXT]: where r u???  
[TEXT]: ur loss I’m not waiting  
[TEXT]: BUZZKILL!!!  
[TEXT]: pic.jpg

The picture does it — finally draws his attention away from his computer to where his phone screen changes from 01:07 to 01:08 as if to taunt him.

It takes Cadence a moment to realize the woman next to Kathy in her (blurry) self-taken photo is supposed to be Ivy. So used to seeing her true form in person — but glamours don’t fade on digital recording. 

And who else do they know dresses like she’s always ready to attend a Victorian funeral?

In his friend’s defense Cade was supposed to be at the _Shift _over an hour ago. 

She’ll hear his excuses and his apologies, pretend as though he’s committed the greatest sin in history — but come sunrise and sobriety he’ll be forgiven. The Nighthunter likes to make everyone think she’s the picture of cool nonchalance; the human equivalent of a cat.

But anyone who feeds strays knows just how affectionate cats can be when they so choose.

He shuts down his work, fighting the instinctual habit to leave most of it out and make his space look clean by pushing it to the sides of his desk — actually putting things back in their folders and boxes.

_Tap-tap._

His head jerks up quick enough for his glasses to threaten flight. Working in this particular space for over a decade now, there isn’t anyone who doesn’t know about Odd Cadence and his odd hours; how he refuses to work in the daylight due to a debilitating allergy.

Even Gary from night maintenance wouldn’t bother.

_Tap-tap._

He listens for a heartbeat. Can hear everything from the rush of water through old plumbing to the coo of pigeons scavenging on the outside Square.

_Tap—_

Isadora de la Rosa doesn’t get to finish her genteel knocking; pale hand hovering just shy of the taller vampire’s collarbone as he holds the door open.

She looks a little dumbfounded for him to have answered. That’s silly, though, since _she _was in _his _territory now.

The air is thick with a tension not felt since _Mardi Gras_ those weeks ago. She looks ready to turn and leave without a word between them. He almost lets her.

“Izzy,” by way of greeting, and even though she now runs the dynasty her father built he struggles to call her anything but the petulant youthful _human _woman he first met her as, “I was just heading out.”

He gives her a chance; sees the opportunity for escape that flickers in her weathered eyes no longer young but no less defiant by nature.

Some people were just born ready to stand their ground. He always admired that about her.

“This won’t take long.”

One step forward, one step back. A familiar dance neither acknowledges as Isadora invites herself into his space. She’s not the oldest thing in the room by far, nor the most expensive. Still she commands the air around her to whisper softer, for the floorboards under her heels to wait until she passes to creak.

“Sure, come on in…”

She makes a point of trying to keep an arms’ length between her body and any clutter. He won’t apologize for it, not to her. She was half the reason he’s like this.

“I’m glad to see the Museum is treating you well.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s never met a de la Rosa good at small talk. He still hasn’t.

But she keeps trying. It’s hard not to cringe at every forced word, how she purposefully finds something to look at and mention; “New project, I see.”

Cadence doesn’t answer. She switches a black leather briefcase from one hand to the other; a poised woman’s version of shuffling her feet.

“You always were best kept —”

“I have somewhere to be.”

Her quirked brow says it all; how she definitely doesn’t believe him but calling him out on it is somehow counterproductive to why she’s here.

_Why _is _she here?_

Because the only reason he can conjure up has to do with the Coven, and the Council, and that’s why they’re enjoying nights like these at the _Shift._ To forget about everything that happened — to move on.

“Look, Izzy — if this is something that can wait, can it? I’ve got office hours tomorrow night—or hell, I’ll even come ‘round to the family house. But I _do _have somewhere to be, and I’m already late.”

When she takes stock of the room again he understands. It’s a tactic — and not a very good one — to allow her to think.

They’ve never been like this before. So why now?

It’s a brief flicker; blink-and-you-miss-it type. But Cadence doesn’t miss it — how Izzy stares at the chair claimed by Katherine in permanent marker.

“You’re going to meet her, the Nighthunter.”

“My _friend _Katherine, yes. Among others.”

“She treads dangerous waters in this town.”

It sounds a little too much like a threat for Cade’s comfort. Makes it a real effort to keep from letting it get to him.

“I think the same could be said for any hunter.” _For Katherine, for Ryder. _

“Yes, you _would _know,” she clasps the case handle with both hands over her front; a shield between them, “though this one — she’s different, isn’t she? She’s well-connected.”

Like he’s been fumbling around in the dark of his head — he finally finds the lamp chain and tugs. Lets the light flood through with an _“Ah”_ of understanding.

So that’s what this is about. 

“Contrary to what you may believe this isn’t the same world Carlo built his dynasty in. Humans — even Nighthunters and _especially _out-of-towners — they don’t whisper the rules to one another anymore.” Then, with firm conviction; “Katherine didn’t know she needed to ask your father for permission to bring Adrian Raines into town.”

“But _you _did.”

“Yeah, I did.” 

If she’s here to enact some sort of delayed punishment, Cadence can’t promise he’ll stay civil. “I weighed the risks carefully,” he continues, “and decided it was best for everyone that no one knew who didn’t _need _to know.” _Not that it had been a good choice. Maybe it could have saved Raines at his trial._

Sometimes he wonders why the two of them didn’t work out — especially when she was Turned. It wasn’t because of her perceived age, and obviously being his boss’ daughter hadn’t stopped them from getting involved in the first place.

He always remembers not a moment later. There’s a reason the term is ‘opposites attract.’ They were too similar — too hot in the head and both prone to speaking and acting without thinking ahead. Without considering the consequences.

So when she isn’t sneering an insult at him on the heels of Cade actually admitting to his wrongdoing… he knows something is very wrong.

“Izzy…?”

And the smile she offers is too forced, too fake. Sends shivers down his spine. “I’m glad you see things that way.”

“What way?”

She unclasps the briefcase with a flick of her little fingers. “That sometimes, in rare cases I think, withholding knowledge from someone is for the best; for all parties involved.

“I had prepared to give you this the night of the Minotaur’s championship fight…” The leather bound folder she pulls free is familiar only in that he’s seen the de la Rosa lawyers carry them like extensions of their hands. “And I have spent many hours since debating whether or not I made the right choice in keeping it close. Watching you in the cage — that made it easier.”

_“Something’s happening, Kath—”_

_“Don’t fight it. Let it swallow you whole.”_

_Let it swallow you whole._

Katherine couldn’t possibly have known just how accurate she had been. 

How it felt to stand at the edge of a yawning abyss no one else could see… and how it felt to have the ground fall out from under his feet the moment he decided to jump.

Memories of what happened after his meeting with Isadora still only came to him in clusters. It was less the act of remembering than feeling the same way — sensory triggers like the smell of blood or the tinny grate of a chain link fence.

Of course she had seen the fight. There were members of the underground community still who approached him on the street with praise for his _‘performance,’_ or thanking him for standing up to the illegal deals Persephone covered with velvet and glitter.

But there’s a difference between knowing something and _knowing it._ Knowing the same hand he used to caress her cheek had also torn off the Minotaur’s horn. Knowing she was _witness _to it…

Isadora’s touch is solid, without the heat humans bring or the chill they feel. It simply _is _as she gives him the folder with no other choice. Whatever secrets rest inside they are _his _burden now.

“What you see here… I ask that you please not think less of me for keeping it from you. I was…” she doesn’t give an excuse — not a single one, “I was doing what I thought was right. But I cannot be the one to make that choice anymore. It’s too much Cadence; it’s far too much.”

He means to find comfort or some understanding in their hands. But there’s none to be found.

They pull away as intimate strangers. The space between them cavernous and echoing — and it only grows wider as he realizes she isn’t the one creating it.

He doesn’t need to ask what mystery he now holds. 

What other mystery is there but the thing that has plagued him from their first “hello” to this their last “goodbye?”

Cadence’s voice is calm, even to his own ears. “Is this everything?”

“All that my daughter could find among his possessions.”

“And if I have any questions…”

“No,” she interrupts, “no you may not bring them to me. I would rather meet the sun than invite the conflict this will bring into my city, to my family’s doorstep.”

He wants to call her selfish but can’t say he wouldn’t be the same way were their roles reversed. 

It’s a nice fantasy—altruism, kindness, doing the right thing so as not to hurt someone close—but it _is _a fantasy.

So what if he carried the ring she returned to him for a decade in mourning? 

And intuition is a very separate thing from mind-reading; that he knows. In Isadora, though, the lines between them have always been a little smudged.

“In case you have any ideas of this meaning…” she breathes and tries again, “just know this has nothing to do with our past, Cadence. Consider this to be an act of release. Beyond what the Council will ask of us, I wash my hands of you.”

Isadora’s decision is as clear now as it was then. She will always choose her family over him. He can’t begrudge her that in the least.

“If only it were that simple.” But it’s probably for the best. 

She leaves as abruptly as she arrived. Somehow with the ability to disrupt everything in his space without touching a single thing. As he looks around the office now it feels tainted with secrets and lies; all the things he still doesn’t know that now rest in his hand.

He need only look.

The chair is less than five steps away but he can’t muster the energy to move both his legs and arms; chooses the latter because what comparison is comfort to answers? 

Cadence opens the folder and begins to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that the story of New Orleans comes to a close. But Taylor, Nik, and the rest _will_ be coming back in _Bound by Destiny II!_
> 
> For those interested in the _entire_ story of the _Oblivion Bound_ series, the next book _Bound by Choice_ will be premiering next week. This book will consist of five short stories, each told in three parts. But more importantly it is the only book in this series **not** derived from any specific canon.
> 
> Instead _Choice_ focuses on three original characters all mentioned in both previous works: Valdas, Isseya, and Cynbel. As with the other books it _will_ contain events that will be mentioned in future works; as well as feature the early lives of characters such as Gaius, Kamilah, Adrian, and others. But no Choices-created MC concept will take place in this third book.
> 
> Nevertheless I hope it is enjoyed just as much as the ones that came before it! See you next week!


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